THE 

CONTEMPLATIVE 
QUARRY 

and 
THE  MAN  WITH  A  HAMMER 

by 
ANNA    WICKHAM 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

LOUIS    UNTERMEYER 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ2I,   BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACK   AND   COMPANY,    INC. 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 

A  Note  on  Method 


Vll 

xvii 


THE  CONTEMPLATIVE  QUARRY 


Amourette:  3 

The  Singer:  5 

Reality:  5 

The  Egoist:  6 

Tortured  Matter:  7 

The  Hermit :  8 

The  Cherry-Blossom  Wand: 

9 

A  Song  of  Morning :  10 
Soul's  Liberty:  n 
Meditation  at  Kew :  12 
Song    to    the    Young    John: 

13 

The  Affinity:  14 

The   Contemplative   Quarry : 

15 

Spoken  to  Adonis  :  16 
The  Mummer :   16 
The  Marriage :  17 
Artificiality:  18 
Ship  Near  Shoals:  19 
The      Revolt      of      Wives: 

20 
The  Free  Woman:  21 


From  Poets,  Workmen,  Wom- 
en and  Children  in  Or- 
phanages :  22 

The  Faithful  Amorist:  23 

To  a  Young  Boy:  24 

Eugenics :  25 

Sehnsucht :  25 

Genuflection :  26 

Comment:  26 

The  Dull  Entertainment:  27 

Choice :  27 

The  Religious  Instinct:  28 

"  Out  of  the  Womb  of 
Mother  Sin":  28 

The  Slighted  Lady:  29 

Gift  to  a  Jade:  31 

Song:  31 

Magnetism :  32 

Friend  Cato:  32 

Susannah  in  the  Morning:  33 

Dedication :  33 

The  Tired  Man:  34 

Self  Analysis:  35 

To  D.  M.:  36 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  HAMMER 

The  Man  with  a  Hammer:      Examination:  40 

39  Return  of  Pleasure:  40 

Invitation:  39  Fecundity:  41 

iii 


205-1233 


Resolution:  41 

Formalist:  42 

Comment:  42 

Note  on  Rhyme:  43 

A  Poet  in  the  House :  44 

Fear  of  the  Supreme :  44 

A  Woman  in  Bed :  45 

The  Recluse:  46 

Demand :  46 

The  Tired  Woman:  47 

The  Unremitting  Weariness: 

48 

The  Wife:  49 
Woman  Determines  to  Take 

Her  Own  Advice:  50 
Outline:  51 
Definition :  52 
The  Angry  Woman :  53 
Song     of     the     Low-Caste 

Wife:  57 

To  the  Silent  Man:  58 
Supplication :  59 
The  Wife's  Song,  1 :  59 
The  Wife's  Song,  II :  60 
Creatrix:  60 
The  Shrew:  61 
Reward:  61 
The  Sad  Lover :  62 
The  Artificer:  63 
Necromancy :  64 
The  Recompense:  64 
Flagellant :  65 
The  Stormy  Moon:  65 
Words :  66 
Abdication:  67 
Aseptic:  67 
Divorce:  68 

Nervous  Prostration :  69 
Retrospect :  70 
The  Pioneer:  71 
Traduce rs :  71 
The  Choice:  71 
The  Promise:  72 
The  Assignation:  73 
Ceremony:  74 
Service :  74 
The  Cruel  Lover:  75 


Remembrance:  75 

State  Endowment:  75 

Ordeal:  76 

The  Faithful  Mother :  76 

After  Annunciation:  77 

A  Boy's  Mouth:  77 

The  Mother-in-law:  78 

The  Individualist:  79 

The  Walk:  81 

All  Men  to  Women :  83 

A  Girl  in  Summer:  84 

The  Anchorite:  85 

The  Song  Maker:  85 

Imperatrix:  86 

Song  of  Anastasia:  86 

Question :  87 

The  Conscience :  87 

Song  of  the  Weak:  87 

Release:  87 

The  Contrast :  88 

Tatterdemalion :  88 

The  Ghost :  89 

Women  and  Multitudes :  89 

The  Woman's  Mind:  89 

Self-Esteem:  90 

The  Avenue :  90 

The  Solace:  90 

Warning:  90 

Eternal  Songs :  91 

The  Woman  of  the  Hill:  91 

Oasis :  92 

The  Meeting:  92 

The  Little  Language:  92 

Vanity:  93 

The  Walk  in  the  Woods:  93 

Invocation :  93 

Irresolute  Lover:  94 

A  Man  in  Love:  94 

The  Silence:  94 

Fear:  95 

The  Flight :  95 

Slave  of  the  Fire:  96 

The  Supreme  Courtesy:  96 

The  Farewell:  96 

Regret :  97 

Surrender:  97 

The  Mill:  98 


IV 


The  Cup:  99 

Sung  of  Clarissa :  99 

Wander  Song:  100 

The  Thief:  100 

Revelation :  101 

Sea  to  the  Waning  Moon :  101 

Transmutation :  102 

A  House  in  Hampstead:  102 

The  Awakening:  103 

The  Trespasser:  103 

Concerning  Certain  Criti- 
cism :  104 

The  Explainers:  104 

Faith:  105 

Insensibility:  105 

Concerning  the  Conversation 
of  Mr.  H.:  106 

The  Passer:  107 

The  Sentimental  Debtor:  107 

The  Bargainer :  108 

To  Anita  the  Gardener:  109 

The  Call :  109 

Verity:  no 

Epicurean  Lover:  in 

The  Poet's  Change  of  Mind : 
112 

Diffidence:  112 

To  "  Nucleus  " :  1 13 

Absolute:  113 

The  Fallow:  114 

The  Return:  114 

The  Winded  Horn:  115 

The  Little  Room:  115 

The  Economist:  115 

Inconstancy:  116 


Song:  116 

The  Poet:  117 

For  Pity:  117 

Prayer  for  Miracle:  117 

De  Profundis:  118 

The  Torture:  118 

Sanctuary:  118 

Immortality:  118 

The  Builders :  119 

Quest:  119 

The  Song  of  Pride:  119 

My  Lady  Surrenders :  120 

Counsel  of  Arrogance:  120 

Prayer  on  Sunday:  121 

Effect  of  Gifts  on  a  Re- 
cipient :  121 

Sung  to  the  Social  Reformer : 
122 

The  Journey:  123 

The  Viper:  123 

Doom :  124 

Outlaw:  124 

The  Fresh  Start:  125 

Domestic  Economy:  126 

The  Mocker:  127 

A  Song  of  Women :  128 

The  Foundling:  129 

The  Town  Dirge:  130 

The  Song  of  the  Child:  131 

Theft:  131 

Mater  Dolorosa :  132 

Solitary:  133 

God,  I  Am  Broken:  134 

Inspiration:  135 

Envoi:  136 


INTRODUCTION 

WOMAN,  as  Meredith  remarked,  will  be  the  last  creature 
tamed  by  man.  To-day,  as  in  the  time  of  the  Cro- 
Magnard  cave-dweller,  this  rebellious  companion,  half- 
animal,  half-angel,  crouches  within  his  walls  and  remains 
aloof  from  them.  She  disdains  even  to  understand  what 
seem  to  be  the  terms  of  her  captivity.  The  simple 
captor,  in  a  rush  of  generosity,  makes  his  quarry  the 
half-willing  partner  of  his  house,  his  heart,  his  every 
trivial  thought.  And  he  is  baffled  because  this  strange 
being,  after  accepting  his  world,  possesses  still  another 
universe  she  does  not  share  with  him.  He  holds  her  and 
yet  she  does  not  seem  wholly  his;  he  chains  her  in  iron 
facts  and,  in  ever-new  fantasies,  she  escapes  him.  The 
quarry  is  too  contemplative  to  be  wholly  caught. 

There  is  something,  he  thinks,  unnatural  in  this  lack  of 
self-revelation.  It  suddenly  occurs  to  him  that  even  when 
woman  has  turned  singer,  she  has  refused  to  reveal  her- 
self. With  amazingly  few  exceptions,  all  the  poetry 
written  by  the  Christina  Rossettis,  the  Elizabeth  Brown- 
ings, the  Laurence  Hopes,  the  Sara  Teasdales,  expresses 
the  masculine  rather  than  the  feminine  attitude  to  the 
sex.  It  is  impossible  to  say  whether  an  ancient  inhibi- 

vii 


tion  or  a  contemptuous  pride  has  kept  her  silent,  or 
whether  a  more  conscious  desire  to  flatter  has  impelled 
practically  every  woman  lyricist  to  picture  her  soul  as 
man  has  always  portrayed  it.  "  Our  lords  and  lovers 
imagine  us  to  be  thus  and  so,"  they  seem  to  say,  "  let 
then  our  songs  declare  we  are  truly  thus  and  so."  Such 
an  attitude — and  it  may  be  a  half-despairing,  half-dis- 
dainful one — accounts  for  the  amazing  similarities  and 
sentimental  choruses.  The  traditional  gestures,  the 
reticences,  the  evasive  delicacies  are  the  properties  that 
screen  a  hundred  fierce  differences — even  the  inflections 
have  a  false  sameness.  One  realizes,  with  abrupt  sur- 
prise, that  what  few  glimpses  poetry  has  had  of  the 
multiplex,  unadjusted  spirit  of  woman  have  been  given 
by  men:  Euripides  understood  her  variously  burning 
heart  better  than  the  passionate  Sappho;  the  restrained 
Meredith  tells  us  more  than  the  rhapsodic  Mrs. 
Browning. 

If  it  is  true  that  the  masculine  monopoly  of  creative, 
critical  and  interpretative  force  is  chiefly  due  to  his 
range  and  liberty  of  experience,  and  if  it  is  equally  true 
that  woman's  minor  position  in  the  arts  is  largely  due 
to  her  lack  of  freedom  for  free  discussion  or  action,  one 
sees  signs  of  a  new  order.  These  manifestations  are 
portents  rather  than  performances.  But  already  a  small 
and  widely-scattered  group  of  women  are  taking  stock 
of  themselves — appraising  their  limitations,  inventions 
and  energies  without  a  thought  of  man's  contempt  or 
condescension.  Searchers  like  May  Sinclair,  Virginia 

viii 


Woolf,  Rebecca  West,  Willa  Gather  and  Dorothy  Rich- 
ardson are  working  in  a  prose  that  illuminates  their 
experiments.  In  poetry,  a  regiment  of  young  women 
are  recording  an  even  more  rigorous  self-examination. 
The  most  typical  and,  in  many  ways,  the  best  of  these 
seekers  and  singers  is  Anna  Wickham. 

Anna  Wickham  is  a  young  Englishwoman  who  has 
written  almost  ten  times  as  much  as  she  has  published. 
Her  first  venture,  a  book  of  forty  small  pages,  is  a  vivid, 
fully-developed  confessional  of  modernity;  the  subse- 
quent poetry  is  more  restrained  but  even  richer.  The 
most  casual  reading — if  such  a  thing  were  possible — of 
Mrs.  Wickham's  work  reveals  the  strength  of  her  candor, 
the  intense  singleness  of  her  purpose.  The  opening  lines 
of  the  first  poem  in  "  The  Contemplative  Quarry  "  strike 
the  key  of  her  book  with  its  acid  overtones  of  irony: 

She:  What  shall  I  do,  most  pleasing  man? 
I  will  delight  you  if  I  can. 
Shall  I  be  silent?    Shall  I  speak? 
Since  I  love  quick,  I'll  show  that  I  am  weak: 
I'll  say  the  wisest  strangest  thing  I  know 
That  you  may  smile  at  vanity,  and  love  me  so. 

He:   How  can  her  wisdom  flourish  and  endure 
When  her  philosophy  is  but  a  lure, 
And  to  the  arsenal  of  charm  is  brought 
The  ammunition  of  her  thought? 
I  count  her  breathing  as  I  sit; 
I  love  her  mouth,  but  disregard  her  wit. 
ix 


The  poems  that  follow  could  scarcely  be  put  in  the  cate- 
gory of  "  pleasant "  or  "  charming  "  verse;  they  are  not 
what  another  poet  has  called  "pretty  tunes  of  coddled 
ills,"  these  are  no  "  songs  for  an  idle  lute."  They  are 
astringent  and  sometimes  harsh;  gnarled  frequently  in 
their  own  perturbations.  This  does  not  mean  that  Mrs. 
Wickham  is  never  a  verbal  musician.  True,  she  is  not 
one  of  those  lyricists  who  win  us  with  the  magic  of 
lines  that  tap  their  feet  in  an  even  measure,  with  words 
that  clap  hands  and  kiss  in  a  ring  of  rhyme,  with  images 
breathing  their  unforgettable  last  syllables  in  a  dying 
cadence.  There  is  little  music  for  its  own  sake  here.  But, 
beneath  her  epigrammatic  ironies,  this  psychologist  can 
sing.  Even  her  wild  angers  and  querulous  revulsions 
cannot  choke  the  lyric  impulse.  The  musician  triumphs 
in  the  melodic  order  of  poems  like  "  The  Tired  Man," 
"  Divorce,"  "  The  Cherry-Blossom  Wand "  (with  its 
evocation  of  Yeats)  and  this  direct,  simple-moving 

SONG 

I  was  so  chill  and  overworn  and  sad, 
To  be  a  lady  was  the  only  joy  I  had. 
I  walked  the  street  as  silent  as  a  mouse, 
Buying  fine  clothes,  and  fittings  for  the  house. 

But  since  I  saw  my  love, 
I  wear  a  simple  dress, 
And  happily  I  move, 
Forgetting  weariness. 

x 


Such  a  poem  is,  in  the  sternest  way,  "  natural  "  with- 
out being  in  the  least  ingenuous.  Mrs.  Wickham,  with 
all  her  yielding  to  the  unconscious,  is  never  submerged 
by  it.  Nor  is  this  poetry  unaware  of  its  burdens; 
time  and  again  it  beats  at  the  bars  of  limitations  far 
greater  than  those  of  form.  It  is  critical  of  itself,  almost 
denunciatory.  Even  fragments  of  poems  devoted  to  the 
search  for  loveliness  reveal  such  self-analysis. 

The  tumult  of  a  fretted  mind 
Gives  me  expression  of  a  kind; 
But  it  is  faulty,  harsh,  not  plain — 
My  work  has  the  incompetence  of  pain. 

So  Mrs.  Wickham's  spirit  burns  and  twists  in  the  flame 
of  her  passionate  appeal: 

God  send  us  power  to  make  decision 
With  muscular,  clean,  fierce  precision. 

But  does  precision  satisfy  her?  On  the  contrary,  she 
writhes  beneath  it.  Torn  between  her  desire  for  perfec- 
tion and  her  distrust  of  it,  she  typifies  the  woman  of 
to-day  who  has  repudiated  the  old  order  and  is,  as  yet, 
pitifully  unadjusted  to  a  new  one. 

I  desire  Virtue,  though  I  love  her  not — 
I  have  no  faith  in  her  when  she  is  got.  .  . 

My  silly  sins  I  take  for  my  heart's  ease 
And  know  my  beauty  in  the  end  disease, 
xi 


Her  very  mercurial  temperament  is  representative  of 
the  nervous  spirit  of  her  age;  mood  follows  mood  with 
abrupt  intensity.  She  is,  in  quick  succession,  burning 
hot  and  icy  cold ;  she  is  driven  from  fiery  antagonisms  to 
smouldering  apathy;  she  is  acutely  sensitive,  restless, 
harassed.  In  one  of  her  early  poems  she  sums  up  the 
impulse  and  fervor  of  this  poetry.  In  a  sort  of  half- 
defiant  apologia  she  writes: 

If  I  had  peace  to  sit  and  sing, 
Then  I  could  make  a  lovely  thing; 
But  I  am  stung  with  goads  and  whips, 
So  I  build  songs  like  iron  ships. 

Let  it  be  something  for  my  song, 
If  it  is  sometimes  swift  and  strong. 

There  are  more  than  a  few  hints  in  these  lines  of  the 
eventual  freedom  of  women.  And  this  promise  of  lib- 
erty instead  of  causing  fresh  jubilations  brings  only 
fresh  questions.  Woman  is  being  freed — for  what?  Is 
she  to  be  liberated  only  to  be  caught  up  in  new  en- 
tanglements? Free  for  larger  discontents?  For  a  more 
relentless  fury  in  the  sex-duel?  She  hesitates.  She  real- 
izes that  it  is  not  possible  to  live  long  on  a  fight.  She 
has  dreams  of  peace  even  in  the  midst  of  battle.  .  .  . 

Thus  the  fluctuating  thoughts  of  Anna  Wickham. 
And  so,  for  the  greater  part,  her  poems  present  the 
drama  of  woman  struggling  between  what  is  difficult 
to  repudiate  and  what  is  still  more  difficult  to  accept. 

xii 


Here  we  see  her  torn  between  dreams  and  domesticity, 
between  being  the  instrument  of  love  and  love  itself; 
making,  with  a  wry  determination,  some  sort  of  com- 
promise between  the  conflicting  claims  of  modernity  and 
maternity.  A  dozen  poems  develop  this  theme  with  rich 
variations.  Witness  the  tense  passion  in  "  The  Revolt 
of  Wives,"  the  restrained  power  of  "  The  Free  Woman," 
the  livelier  satire  in  "  Eugenics,"  "  The  Slighted  Lady  " 
and  the  bitter  humor  of  "  Definition,"  "  Nervous  Pros- 
tration "  and  "  The  Individualist." 

This  is  Woman — avid  for  all  the  panaceas  and  dis- 
trustful of  them  all.  A  Feminist — and  even  Feminism 
does  not  satisfy  her.  There  still  is  the  stubborn  fact  of 
inferiority — self-imposed  as  well  as  forced  upon  her — 
and  the  great  desire  to  maintain  a  persistent  individu- 
ality clashes  with  the  deeper  desire  to  give  all  of  self 
completely.  For  the  moment,  she  turns  upon  herself 
and,  angry  though  she  is  at  the  women  who  grow  old 
with  being  "  passionate  about  pins,  and  pence,  and  soap," 
she  becomes  even  more  impatient  at  the  complacency  of 
certain  schools  of  thought.  Thus  in  the  caustic  "  The 
Affinity,"  she  begins: 

I  have  to  thank  God  I'm  a  woman 

For  in  these  ordered  days  a  woman  only 

Is  free  to  be  very  hungry,  very  lonely. 

And,  in  another  key,  feminism  is  discarded  for  feminin- 
ity; through  the  mouthpiece  of  "The  Shrew"  she  can 
say: 

xiii 


You  wish,  O  master  of  my  destiny, 

That  I  control  myself. 

'Twere  better  you  ruled  me. 

For  if  I  rule  myself,  I  smile  at  you,  and  hate. 

If  you  rule  me,  I  love  you  though  I  curse,  O  mate! 

In  this  poetry  one  receives,  through  the  vision  of 
woman  in  rebellion,  the  sharp  activity  of  modern  art. 
Not  only  do  the  aesthetic  agitations  find  their  echo  in 
snatches  like 

Only  a  starveling  singer  seeks 

The  stuff  of  songs  among  the  Greeks.  .   .   . 

These  are  new  waters  and  a  new  Humanity; 
For  all  old  myths  give  us  the  dream  to  be.  ... 

But  iconoclasm  has  been  equally  stimulated  so  that  it 
moves  with  a  definitely  religious  energy. 

Thank  God  for  war  and  fire 

To  burn  the  silly  objects  of  desire, 

That  from  the  ruin  of  a  church  thrown  down 

We  see  God  clear  and  high  above  the  town. 

Out  of  all  those  poems,  even  the  most  lyrical  ones, 
rises  the  cry  of  the  solitary  soul  that  is  no  less  solitary 
for  being  the  protagonist  of  a  sex.  It  cries  to  placid 
women  as  well  as  to  complacent  men:  "  Show  us  the 
contract  plain!  " 

xiv 


We,  vital  women,  are  no  more  content 
Bound,  first  to  passion,  then  to  sentiment. 
Of  you,  the  masters,  slaves  in  our  poor  eyes 
Who  most  are  moved  by  women's  tricks  and  lies, 
We  ask  our  freedom.    In  good  sooth, 
We  only  ask  to  know  and  speak  the  truth! 

"We  only  ask  to  know  and  speak  the  truth."  A 
tremendous  demand  screened  by  that  deprecating 
"  only  "!  But  it  is  because  of  such  determinations  that 
truth — or  an  approach  to  it — will  be  a  little  easier  for 
lovers,  comrades,  women  and  men.  It  will  not  only  be 
the  quarry  that  will  have  something  splendid  to  con- 
template. 

Louis  UNTERMEYETR. 

NEW  YORK  CITY, 
January,  1921. 


xv 


A  NOTE  ON  METHOD 

HERE  is  no  sacramental  /. 

Here  are  more  I's  than  yet  were  in  one  human. 

Here  I  reveal  our  common  mystery — 

I  give  you  "  Woman." 

Let  it  be  known  for  our  old  world's  relief, 

I  give  you  woman — and  my  method's  brief! 


THE 

CONTEMPLATIVE 
QUARRY 


AMOURETTE 

(The  Woman  and  the  Philosopher) 

She:  WHAT  shall  I  do,  most  pleasing  man? 
I  will  delight  you  if  I  can. 
Shall  I  be  silent?    Shall  I  speak? 
Since  I  love  quick,  I'll  show  that  I  am  weak: 
I'll  say  the  wisest  strangest  thing  I  know 
That  you  may  smile  at  vanity,  and  love  me  so. 

He:   How  can  her  wisdom  flourish  and  endure 
When  her  philosophy  is  but  a  lure, 
And  to  the  arsenal  of  charm  is  brought 
The  ammunition  of  her  thought? 
I  count  her  breathing  as  I  sit; 
I  love  her  mouth,  but  disregard  her  wit. 

She:  More  than  love,  and  more  than  other  pleasure 
I  desire  thrilling  combat  of  the  wit. 
As  far  as  I  can  measure 
This  man  is  rare,  and  therefore  fit 
To  be  a  combatant.    Let  me  say  one  thing  new 
That  I  may  gage  him  so,  to  prove  my  judgment 
true. 

3 


(Here  follows  an  argument.) 

She:  Sir,  it  is  just  I  own 
That  I  am  overthrown, 
And  I  take  strange  delight 
That  I  am  beaten  so  to-night. 

He:    Madam,  you  are  a  sensualist, 

And,  being  such,  you  shall  be  kissed. 

She:  What  husbandry  is  this? 

What  thrift,  that  we  should  kiss 

On  the  first  night  we  meet? 

What  is  your  need  to  eat  the  seed, 

When  growth  might  be  so  sweet? 

From  this  first  pleasure  that  you  sow  in  me 

It  is  my  power  to  raise  a  gracious  tree. 

And,  maybe,  I  will  give  you  a  kind  grove 

Where  you  may  sit  through  sunny  days,  and  love. 

He:    This  answer,  which  is  rare, 
Is  luring  as  your  hair. 
I  go  from  you  this  night  in  pain, 
But,  Madam,  I  will  come  again. 

She:  Dreams,  dreams,  stay  with  me  till  I  sleep, 
Then  let  oblivion  steep 
My  senses  in  forgetfulness, 
That  when  I  wake,  I  may  forget  my  loneliness. 
4 


THE  SINGER 


IF  I  had  peace  to  sit  and  sing, 
Then  I  could  make  a  lovely  thing; 
But  I  am  stung  with  goads  and  whips, 
So  I  build  songs  like  iron  ships. 

Let  it  be  something  for  my  song, 
If  it  is  sometimes  swift  and  strong. 


REALITY 


ONLY  a  starveling  singer  seeks 

The  stuff  of  songs  among  the  Greeks. 

Juno  is  old, 

Jove's  loves  are  cold, 

Tales  over-told. 

By  a  new  risen  Attic  stream, 

A  mortal  singer  dreamed  a  dream. 

Fixed  he  not  Fancy's  habitation, 

Nor  set  in  bonds  Imagination. 

There  are  new  waters,  and  a  new  Humanity. 

For  all  old  myths  give  us  the  dream  to  be. 

We  are  outwearied  with  Persephone, 
Rather  than  her,  we'll  sing  Reality. 


THE  EGOIST 

SHALL  I  write  pretty  poetry 
Controlled  by  ordered  sense  in  me 
With  an  old  choice  of  figure  and  of  word, 
So  call  my  soul  a  nesting  bird? 

Of  the  dead  poets  I  can  make  a  synthesis, 
And  learn  poetic  form  that  in  them  is; 
But  I  will  use  the  figure  that  is  real 
For  me,  the  figure  that  I  feel. 

And  now  of  this  matter  of  ear-perfect  rhyme, 
My  clerk  can  list  all  language  in  his  leisure  time; 
A  faulty  rhyme  may  be  a  well-placed  microtone, 
And  hold  a  perfect  imperfection  of  its  own. 

A  poet  rediscovers  all  creation; 

His  instinct  gives  him  beauty,  which  is  sensed  relation. 

It  was  as  fit  for  one  man's  thoughts  to  trot  in  iambs,  as 
it  is  for  me, 

Who  live  not  in  the  horse-age,  but  in  the  day  of  aero- 
planes, to  write  my  rhythms  free. 


TORTURED  MATTER 

I  HAVE  no  physical  need  of  a  chair ; 

I  can  double  my  body  anywhere: 

A  suitable  rest  is  found 

Upon  a  stone  or  on  the  ground. 

But  it  is  needful  that  I  feed  my  wit, 

With  beauty  and  complexity,  even  when  I  sit. 

Had  I  a  splendid  broad  philosophy, 

I  were  high  man  without  complexity. 

I'd  fling  myself  on  any  natural  sod 

To  scan  the  zenith  and  remember  God. 

But  it  is  needful  man  shall  strive 

With  tortured  matter,  so  to  keep  alive. 

Idle  man  would  never  live  to  age: 

He  would  run  mad  and  die  in  rage. 

When  fat  accumulations  cloy, 

War  brings  her  sword  to  ravage  and  destroy, 

That  through  the  smoke  of  the  consuming  real 

Man  sees  a  clearer  and  more  sure  ideal. 


THE  HERMIT 


FOOLS  drove  him  with  goads  and  whips 
Down  to  the  sea  where  there  were  ships. 
And  he  was  forced  at  the  risk  of  his  neck 
To  find  a  refuge  on  a  stranger's  deck. 

Then  that  ship  sailed  away 

Far  from  the  land  that  day, 

He  watched  the  sky,  and  mourned  to  be 

In  such  a  dread  captivity. 

But  from  a  rift  of  flying  cloud 
Burst  a  tempest  quick  and  loud; 
A  burning  bolt  struck  the  strange  deck 
Bringing  the  ship  to  sudden  wreck. 

So  the  poor  slave  swam  free 

Over  a  quick  calmed  sea: 

On  a  new  coast-line  he  was  thrown, 

And  claimed  a  virgin  island  for  his  own. 

In  the  quiet  island  was  such  pleasure, 
In  solitude  he  found  such  treasure, 
He  took  rude  tools 
And  carved  a  splendid  monument  to  fools. 


THE  CHERRY-BLOSSOM  WAND 

(To  be  sung) 

I  WILL  pluck  from  my  tree  a  cherry-blossom  wand, 
And  carry  it  in  my  merciless  hand, 
So  I  will  drive  you,  so  bewitch  your  eyes, 
With  a  beautiful  thing  that  can  never  grow  wise. 

Light  are  the  petals  that  fall  from  the  bough, 
And  lighter  the  love  that  I  offer  you  now; 
In  a  spring  day  shall  the  tale  be  told 
Of  the  beautiful  things  that  will  never  grow  old. 

The  blossoms  shall  fall  in  the  night  wind, 
And  I  will  lea  vie  you  so,  to  be  kind: 
Eternal  in  beauty  are  short-lived  flowers, 
Eternal  in  beauty,  these  exquisite  hours. 

I  will  pluck  from  my  tree  a  cherry-blossom  wand, 

And  carry  it  in  my  merciless  hand, 

So  I  will  drive  you,  so  bewitch  your  eyes, 

What  a  beautiful  thing  that  shall  never  grow  wise. 


A  SONG  OF  MORNING 

THE  starved  priest  must  stay  in  his  cold  hills. 

How  can  he  walk  in  vineyards, 

Where  brown  girls  mock  him 

With  kisses,  and  with  the  dance! 

You,  O  son  of  Silenus,  must  live  in  cities, 

Where  there  is  wine, 

Where  there  are  couches  for  rank  flesh, 

Where  women  walk  in  streets. 

But  I  will  be  a  conqueror, 

Strong  to  starve  and  feast. 

I  will  go  up  into  the  hills. 

With  club  and  flint  I  will  fight  hairy  men. 

I  will  break  a  head  as  I  throw  down  a  cup; 

I  will  spill  my  blood  as  I  throw  down  wine 

at  a  feast; 

I  will  break  mountain  ice  for  my  bath; 
I  will  lie  upon  cold  rock,  and  I  will  dream. 

Then  I  will  come  down  into  the  cities, 
Slim,  but  for  my  great  sinews. 

And  I  will  walk  in  the  streets  of  women. 
The  women  will  be  behind  their  curtains, 
And  they  will  fear  me. 

I  will  be  strong  to  live  beyond  the  law; 
I  will  be  strong  to  live  without  the  priest ; 
I  will  be  strong,  no  slave  of  couches. 
10 


I  will  be  a  conqueror, 
Mighty  to  starve  and  feast. 


SOUL'S  LIBERTY 

HE  who  has  lost  soul's  liberty 

Concerns  himself  for  ever  with  his  property, 

As,  when  the  folk  have  lost  both  dance  and  song, 

Women  clean  useless  pots  the  whole  day  long. 

Thank  God  for  war  and  fire 

To  burn  the  silly  objects  of  desire, 

That  from  the  ruin  of  a  church  thrown  down 

We  see  God  clear  and  high  above  the  town. 


MEDITATION  AT  KEW 

ALAS  !  for  all  the  pretty  women  who  marry  dull  men, 
Go  into  the  suburbs  and  never  come  out  again, 
Who  lose  their  pretty  faces,  and  dim  their  pretty  eyes, 
Because  no  one  has  skill  or  courage  to  organize. 

What  do  these  pretty  women  suffer  when  they  marry? 
They  bear  a  boy  who  is  like  Uncle  Harry, 
A  girl,  who  is  like  Aunt  Eliza,  and  not  new, 
These  old,  dull  races  must  breed  true. 

I  would  enclose  a  common  in  the  sun, 
And  let  the  young  wives  out  to  laugh  and  run ; 
I  would  steal  their  dull  clothes  and  go  away, 
And  leave  the  pretty  naked  things  to  play. 

Then  I  would  make  a  contract  with  hard  Fate 

That  they  see  all  the  men  in  the  world  and  choose  a 

mate, 

And  I  would  summon  all  the  pipers  in  the  town 
That  they  dance  with  Love  at  a  feast,  and  dance  him 

down. 

From  the  gay  unions  of  choice 

We'd  have  a  race  of  splendid  beauty,  and  of  thrilling 

voice. 

The  World  whips  frank,  gay  love  with  rods, 
But  frankly  gaily  shall  we  get  the  gods. 

12 


SONG  TO  THE  YOUNG  JOHN 

THE  apple-blossomy  king 
Is  lord  of  this  new  Spring; 
He  is  the  spirit  of  young  joy, 
My  little  yellow-headed  boy. 


His  eyes  are  a  bluebell  wood,  set  in  a  boy's  head. 
His  hair  the  white-gold  ghost  of  sunlight  from  Springs 

dead. 

The  pink  of  apple-blossom  is  in  his  bonnie  cheeks; 
I  hear  bird-song  in  sleepy  glades,  when  the  king  speaks. 

He  moves  like  a  young  larch  in  a  light  wind ; 
His  body  brings  slim  budding  trees  to  mind. 
How  all  my  senses  thrill  to  the  dear  treasure, 
Till  I  must  weep  for  sweet  excess  of  pleasure. 

THE  apple-blossomy  king 
Is  lord  of  this  new  Spring; 
He  is  the  spirit  of  young  joy, 
My  little  yellow-headed  boy. 


THE  AFFINITY 


I  HAVE  to  thank  God  I'm  a  woman, 
For  in  these  ordered  days  a  woman  only 
Is  free  to  be  very  hungry,  very  lonely. 

It  is  sad  for  Feminism,  but  still  clear 

That  man,  more  often  than  woman,  is  a  pioneer. 

If  I  would  confide  a  new  thought, 

First  to  a  man  must  it  be  brought. 

Now,  for  our  sins,  it  is  my  bitter  fate 
That  such  a  man  wills  soon  to  be  my  mate, 
And  so  of  friendship  is  quick  end: 
When  I  have  gained  a  love  I  lose  a  friend. 

It  is  well  within  the  order  of  things 
That  man  should  listen  when  his  mate  sings; 
But  the  true  male  never  yet  walked 
Who  liked  to  listen  when  his  mate  talked. 

I  would  be  married  to  a  full  man, 

As  would  all  women  since  the  world  began; 

But  from  a  wealth  of  living  I  have  proved 

I  must  be  silent,  if  I  would  be  loved. 

i 

Now  of  my  silence  I  have  much  wealth, 
I  have  to  do  my  thinking  all  by  stealth. 
My  thought  may  never  see  the  day; 
My  mind  is  like  a  catacomb  where  early  Christians 
pray. 

14 


And  of  my  silence  I  have  much  pain, 
But  of  these  pangs  I  have  great  gain ; 
For  I  must  take  to  drugs  or  drink, 
Or  I  must  write  the  things  I  think. 

If  my  sex  would  let  me  speak, 

I  would  be  very  lazy  and  most  weak; 

I  should  speak  only,  and  the  things  I  spoke 

Would  fill  the  air  a  while,  and  clear  like  smoke. 

The  things  I  think  now  I  write  down, 
And  some  day  I  will  show  them  to  the  Town. 
When  I  am  sad  I  make  thought  clear ; 
I  can  re-read  it  all  next  year. 

I  have  to  thank  God  I'm  a  woman, 

For  in  these  ordered  days  a  woman  only 

Is  free  to  be  very  hungry,  very  lonely. 


THE  CONTEMPLATIVE  QUARRY 

MY  Love  is  male  and  proper-man 
And  what  he'd  have  he'd  get  by  chase, 
So  I  must  cheat  as  women  can 
And  keep  my  love  from  off  my  face. 
'Tis  folly  to  my  dawning,  thrifty  thought 
That  I  must  run,  who  in  the  end  am  caught. 


SPOKEN  TO  ADONIS 

HAVE  you  observed  that  one  can  measure 
Poetic  worth  of  words  in  terms  of  pleasure? 
Honey  and  milk  have  been  sweet  food  so  long, 
These  words  are  naturalized  in  Song. 
And  from  my  joy  in  you  the  time  is  ripe 
That  I  find  lyric  value  for  your  pipe. 
What  tender  pleasure  do  your  lips  invoke, 
Moving  in  gracious  meditation  as  you  smoke! 


THE  MUMMER 

STRICT  I  walk  my  ordered  way 

Through  the  strait  and  duteous  day; 

The  hours  are  nuns  that  summon  me 

To  offices  of  huswifry. 

Cups  and  cupboards,  flagons,  food 

Are  things  of  my  solicitude. 

No  elfin  Folly  haply  strays 

Down  my  precise  and  well-swept  ways. 

When  that  compassionate  lady  Night 
Shuts  out  a  prison  from  my  sight, 
With  other  thrift  I  turn  a  key 
Of  the  old  chest  of  Memory. 
And  in  my  spacious  dreams  unfold 
A  flimsy  stuff  of  green  and  gold, 
And  walk  and  wander  in  the  dress 
Of  old  delights,  and  tenderness. 
16 


THE  MARRIAGE 

WHAT  a  great  battle  you  and  I  have  fought! 

A  fight  of  sticks  and  whips  and  swords, 

A  one-armed  combat, 

For  each  held  the  left  hand  pressed  close  to  the 

heart, 
To  save  the  caskets  from  assault. 

How  tenderly  we  guarded  them; 

I  would  keep  mine  and  still  have  yours, 

And  you  held  fast  to  yours  and  coveted  mine. 

Could  we  have  dropt  the  caskets 

We  would  have  thrown  down  weapons 

And  been  at  each  other  like  apes, 

Scratching,  biting,  hugging 

In  exasperation. 

What  a  fight! 

Thank  God  that  I  was  strong  as  you, 

And  you,  though  not  my  master,  were  my  match. 

How  we  panted;  we  grew  dizzy  with  rage. 

We  forgot  everything  but  the  fight  and  love  of  the 

caskets. 

These  we  called  by  great  names — 
Personality,  Liberty,  Individuality. 

Each  fought  for  right  to  keep  himself  a  slave 
And  to  redeem  his  fellow. 
How  can  this  be  done? 
17 


But  the  fight  ended. 

For  both  was  victory; 

For  both  there  was  defeat. 

Through  blood  we  saw  the  caskets  on  the  floor. 

Our  jewels  were  revealed: 

An  ugly  toad  is  mine, 

While  yours  was  filled  with  most  contemptible, 

small  snakes. 
One  held  my  vanity,  the  other  held  your  sloth. 

The  fight  is  over,  and  our  eyes  are  clear. — 
Good  friend,  shake  hands. 


ARTIFICIALITY 

POOR  body  that  was  crushed  in  stays, 

Through  many  real-seeming  days, 

You  are  free  in  the  grave. 

You  held  a  ghost  'neath  roof  and  law 

Well  by  contrivance  and  by  wit  and  saw. 

All  storms  that  rage  now  strike  your  mould, 

Now  dead,  now  low,  now  cold; 

And  air,  turned  foe,  your  ready  breath  forgot, 

Shall  wanton  with  you  till  you  rot. 

Poor  bodies  crushed  in  stays, 
Think  of  the  rotting  days! 
18 


SHIP  NEAR  SHOALS 

I  HAVE  been  so  misused  by  chaste  men  with  one  wife 
That  I  would  live  with  satyrs  all  my  life. 
Virtue  has  bound  me  with  such  infamy 
That  I  must  fly  where  Love  himself  is  free, 
And  know  all  vice  but  that  small  vice  of  dignity. 

Come  Rags  and  Jades!  so  long  as  you  have  laughter, 
Blow  your  shrill  pipes,  and  I  will  follow  after. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  WIVES 

I  WILL  be  neither  man  nor  woman, 

I  will  be  just  a  human. 

When  the  time  comes  for  me  to  bear  a  son, 

With  concentration  shall  the  work  be  done. 

My  medium  then  is  flesh  and  blood, 

And  by  God's  mercy  shall  the  work  be  good. 

If  all  of  women's  life  were  spent  with  child, 

How  were  Earth's  people  and  her  area  reconciled? 

Nor  for  my  very  pleasure  will  I  vex 

My  whole  long  life  away  in  things  of  sex, 

As  in  those  good  Victorian  days 

When  teeming  women  lived  in  stays. 

We  often  find  the  moralist  forgetting 
Relation  betwixt  bearing  and  begetting. 
What  increase  if  all  women  should  be  chaste? 
But  it  is  good  all  women  keep  a  natural  waist, 
For  a  strong  people's  love  of  child 
With  narrow  hips  can  not  be  reconciled. 

Show  us  the  contract  plain,  that  we  may  prove 
If  we  are  loved  for  children,  or  are  loved  for  love. 
Your  children  all  our  services  compel, 
But  from  love's  charter  do  we  now  rebel. 
If  in  our  love  you  find  such  pleasure, 
Pay  us  in  freedom  love's  full  measure. 
20 


We,  vital  women,  are  no  more  content 

Bound,  first  to  passion,  then  to  sentiment. 

Of  you,  the  masters,  slaves  in  our  poor  eyes 

Who  most  are  moved  by  women's  tricks  and  lies, 

We  ask  our  freedom.    In  good  sooth, 

We  only  ask  to  know  and  speak  the  truth! 


THE  FREE  WOMAN 

WHAT  was  not  done  on  earth  by  incapacity 

Of  old,  was  promised  for  the  life  to  be. 

But  I  will  build  a  heaven  which  shall  prove 

A  lovelier  paradise 

To  your  brave  mortal  eyes 

Than  the  eternal  tranquil  promise  of  the  Good. 

For  freedom  I  will  give  perfected  love, 

For  which  you  shall  not  pay  in  shelter  or  in  food. 

For  the  work  of  my  head  and  hands  I  will  be  paid, 

But  I  take  no  fee  to  be  wedded,  or  to  remain  a  maid. 


21 


FROM  POETS,  WORKMEN,  WOMEN,  AND 
CHILDREN  IN  ORPHANAGES 

WITH  wine  or  with  faith,  with  love  or  with  song, 

Let  me  be  drunken  all  my  life  long. 

On  hills  of  ecstasy,  in  troughs  of  pain, 

Never  more  sober,  never  more  sane. 

For  I  lived  too  long  in  a  den 

Of  sane  and  solemn  men, 

Each  merciless  as  a  beast, 

And  my  spirit  was  their  feast. 

They  sucked  my  soul  from  me 

All  for  the  sake  of  holy  Uniformity. 


22 


THE  FAITHFUL  AMORIST 

AM  I  not  the  lover  of  Beauty 

To  follow  her  where  I  know  she  is  hid 

By  the  aroma  of  her  pleasure? 

Yesterday  I  had  pleasure  of  Helen, 

Of  white,  of  yellow  hair, 

But  to-day  a  negress  is  my  delight, 

And  Beauty  is  black. 

There  are  some  that  are  as  small  tradesmen, 

To  sell  beauty  in  a  shop, 

Noting  what  has  been  desired,  and  acclaiming  it 

eternally  good. 
So  poets  fill  verses 

For  ever  with  the  owl,  the  oak,  and  the  nightingale, 
I  say  the  crow  is  a  better  bird  than  the  nightingale, 
Since  to-day  Beauty  is  black. 

The  lark  sings  flat 

Of  wearisome  trees  and  spiritless  fields, 
But  there  is  great  music  in  the  hyaena, 
For  there  is  pleasure  in  deserts. 


TO  A  YOUNG  BOY 

POOR  son  of  strife — 

Child  of  inequality  and  growth — 

You  will  never  learn;  you  have  only  to  live. 

You  will  never  know  the  peace  of  order, 

Routine  will  crush  you. 

Safe  toil  has  always  thought  of  time, 

But  you  will  work  in  utter  concentration, 

Fierce  as  fire. 

You  will  find  no  steady  excellence: 

You  will  spend  your  life  in  a  ditch,  grubbing  for 

grains  of  gold. 
Remember,  my  dear  son, 
That  gold  is  gold. 

You  will  find  no  steady  virtue: 

You  will  live  sometimes  with  holy  ecstasy,  some- 
times with  shoddy  sin. 

You  will  keep  no  constant  faith, 

But  with  an  agony  of  faithful  longing  you  will 
hate  a  lie. 

Life  will  give  you  no  annuity, 

You  will  always  be  at  risk. 

There  is  one  technique,  one  hope  and  one  excuse 

for  such  as  you, 
And  that  is  courage. 

24 


EUGENICS 

IN  this  woman,  whose  business  it  is  to  prepare  my  dinner, 
I  find  the  most  surprising  sensitiveness  to  works  of  art, 
With  splendid  qualities  of  sympathy  and  heart, 
And  now  I  learn  her  father  was  a  sinner. 

His  lines  were  laid  in  unadventurous  places; 
He  was  a  tradesman  in  a  little  town. 
But  whiies,  he  laid  the  yardstick  down 
And  went  and  lost  his  money  at  the  races. 

The  draper  had  his  quiver  very  full: 

At  the  thought  of  his  thriftlessness  my  heart  should 

harden. 

But  had  he  lived  and  died  like  a  churchwarden, 
I  know  my  housekeeper  had  been  dull. 


SEHNSUCHT 

BECAUSE  of  body's  hunger  are  we  born, 
And  by  contriving  hunger  are  we  fed ; 
Because  of  hunger  is  our  work  well  done, 
As  so  are  songs  well  sung,  and  things  well  said. 
Desire  and  longing  are  the  whips  of  God — 
God  save  us  all  from  death  when  we  are  fed. 


GENUFLECTION 


I  MOST  offend  my  Deity  when  I  kneel; 
I  have  no  profit  from  repeated  prayers. 
I  know  the  law  too  perfect  and  too  real 
To  swerve  or  falter  for  my  small  affairs. 
Not  till  my  ruinous  fears  begin 
Do  I  ask  God  for  freedom  from  my  sin. 
Self-fear  is  chiefest  ally  of  the  Devil, 
And  I  fall  straight  from  praying  into  evil. 


COMMENT 


THE  spirit  of  Mediocrity 
Is,  as  the  ant,  conservative, 
And  this  is  as  it  well  must  be, 
Else  were  the  creature  not  alive. 

The  weakling  clings  to  the  paps  of  the  Past, 
Draws  that  assured  necessary  food. 
Young  Power  is  strong  to  make  a  fast 
Within  a  sparsely-berried  wood. 

Wherein,  as  Time  and  clearances  allow, 
He'll  tether  a  most  fruitful  milky  cow, 
From  which  all  following  Mediocrity 
Will  draw  its  strength  to  praise  Rigidity. 
26 


THE  DULL  ENTERTAINMENT 

HERE  is  too  much  food 

For  the  talk  to  be  good, 

And  too  much  hurrying  of  menial  feet, 

And  too  kind  proffering  of  things  to  eat. 


CHOICE 


No  sleepy  poison  is  more  strong  to  kill 

Than  jaded,  weak,  and  vacillating  will. 

God  send  us  power  to  make  decision 

With  muscular,  clean,  fierce  precision. 

In  life  and  song 

Give  us  the  might 

To  dare  to  be  wrong 

Who  feared  we  were  not  right. 

Regenerating  days  begin 

When  I,  who  made  no  choice,  choose  even  sin. 


THE  RELIGIOUS  INSTINCT 

WHEN  I  love  most — I  am  turned  psalmist. 

I  have  expression  from  my  wrong. 

I  bay  like  a  ghost-scenting  hound, 

"  Where  is  God  hid?  for  I  would  smite  him  with  a  song." 

Come  back,  Jehovah, 

Give  me  cover. 

Come  back,  old  god, 

For  I  have  lost  my  lover. 


"  OUT  OF  THE  WOMB  OF  MOTHER  SIN  " 

OUT  of  the  womb  of  Mother  Sin, 

With  stained  and  sensitive  skin, 

Is  born  the  strong  solitary  soul 

Who  is  master  of  power  and  of  control. 

Fearlessness  did  him  beget ; 

Nor  let  the  moralist  forget, 

The  child  of  Sin  and  Courage  well  may  be 

Nobler  than  any  child  of  timid  Purity. 


28 


THE  SLIGHTED  LADY 

THERE  was  a  man  who  won  a  beautiful  woman. 

Not  only  was  she  lovely,  and  shaped  like  a  woman, 

But  she  had  a  beautiful  mind. 

She  understood  everything  the  man  said  to  her; 

She  listened  and  smiled, 

And  the  man  possessed  her  and  grew  in  ecstasy; 

And  he  talked  while  the  woman  listened  and  smiled. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  the  woman  understood  even 

more  than  the  man  had  said; 
Then  she  spoke,  and  the  man,  sated  with  possession,  and 

weary  with  words,  slept. 
He  slept  on  the  threshold  of  his  house. 
The  woman  was  within,  in  a  small  room. 

Then  to  the  window  of  her  room 
Came  a  young  lover  with  his  lute, 
And  thus  he  sang: 

"  O,  beautiful  woman,  who  can  perfect  my  dreams. 

Take  my  soul  into  your  hands 

Like  a  clear  crystal  ball. 

Warm  it  to  softness  at  your  breast, 

And  shape  it  as  you  will. 

We  two  shall  sing  together  living  songs, 

And  walk  our  Paradise,  in  an  eternal  noon — 

Come,  my  Desire,  I  wait." 

29 


But  the  woman,  remembering  the  sleeper  and  her  faith, 
Shook  her  good  head,  to  keep  the  longing  from  her  eyes, 
At  which  the  lover  sang  again,  and  with  such  lusty 

rapture 

That  the  sleeper  waked, 
And,  listening  to  the  song,  he  said: 
"  My  woman  has  bewitched  this  man — 
He  is  seduced. 
What  folly  does  he  sing? 
This  woman  is  no  goddess,  but  my  wife; 
And  no  perfection,  but  the  keeper  of  my  house." 

Whereat  the  woman  said  within  her  heart; 

"  My  husband  has  not  looked  at  me  for  many  days — 

He  has  forgot  that  flesh  is  warm, 

And  that  the  spirit  hungers. 

I  have  waited  long  within  the  house; 

I  freeze  with  dumbness,  and  I  go." 

Then  she  stept  down  from  her  high  window 

And  walked  with  her  young  lover,  singing  to  his  lute. 


GIFT  TO  A  JADE 

FOR  love  he  offered  me  his  perfect  world. 

This  world  was  so  constricted,  and  so  small, 

It  had  no  sort  of  loveliness  at  all, 

And  I  flung  back  the  little  silly  ball. 

At  that  cold  moralist  I  hotly  hurled, 

His  perfect,  pure,  symmetrical,  small  world. 


SONG 


I  WAS  so  chill  and  overworn  and  sad, 
To  be  a  lady  was  the  only  joy  I  had. 
I  walked  the  street  as  silent  as  a  mouse, 
Buying  fine  clothes,  and  fittings  for  the  house. 

But  since  I  saw  my  love, 
I  wear  a  simple  dress, 
And  happily  I  move, 
Forgetting  weariness. 


MAGNETISM 

THE  little  king 

Came  preening  to  the  presence  of  the  great, 

Who  wore  no  jewelled  thing 

To  show  imperial  state. 

Had  the  small  king  been  wise, 

He'd  read  dominion  in  a  mummer's  eyes. 

The  peacock  princeling  spoke  his  will, 

While  the  great  lord  sat  still. 

But  steady  eyes  had  filched  a  soul  away: 

A  braggart  withered  in  his  husk  that  day. 

Had  the  small  king  been  wise, 

He'd  read  dominion  in  a  mummer's  eyes. 

FRIEND  CATO 

WHEN  the  master  sits  at  ease 

He  joys  in  generalities; 

In  aphorisms  concerning  all  things  human, 

But  most  of  all  concerning  woman. 

Saying,  "  Women  are  this  or  that  .    .    . 

Woman  is  round,  or  high,  or  square,  or  flat." 

Sir,  a  shepherd  knows  his  sheep  apart, 
And  mothers  know  young  babes  by  heart. 
To  taste  no  little  shade  of  difference 
Is  sign  of  undiscerning  sense. 
Cato,  in  pity,  hear  our  just  demur, 
Man,  to  be  critic,  must  be  connoisseur. 
32 


SUSANNAH  IN  THE  MORNING 

WHEN  first  I  saw  him  I  was  chaste  and  good, 
And  he,  how  ruthless,  pardoned  not  the  mood. 
From  one  quick  look  I  knew  him  dear, 
And  gave  the  highest  tribute  of  my  fear. 
So  I  played  woman  to  his  male: 
How  better  could  his  power  prevail! 
But  his  hot  sense  showed  quick  surprise 
At  the  slow  challenge  of  my  shaded  eyes. 
In  a  closed  room  what  fires  may  burn! 
O  my  cold  lover  will  you  not  return? 
To  the  high  night  I  fling  my  prayer: 
Master  of  chariots,  drive  me  in  the  air! 


DEDICATION 

I  WALKED  when  the  wood  was  full  of  minstrelsy. 
A  pretty  prince  came  down  to  talk  with  me. 
He  spoke  so  kindly,  and  quite  loud: 
Then  he  was  gone,  quick  as  high  cloud. 
That  he  came  here  is  such  a  happy  thing, 
I  sit  quite  still  in  the  wood  and  sing. 


33 


THE  TIRED  MAN 


I  AM  a  quiet  gentleman, 
And  I  would  sit  and  dream; 
But  my  wife  is  on  the  hillside, 
Wild  as  a  hill-stream. 

I  am  a  quiet  gentleman, 

And  I  would  sit  and  think; 

But  my  wife  is  walking  the  whirlwind 

Through  night  as  black  as  ink. 

0,  give  me  a  woman  of  my  race 
As  well  controlled  as  I, 
And  let  us  sit  by  the  fire, 
Patient  till  we  die! 


34 


SELF  ANALYSIS 

THE  tumult  of  my  fretted  mind 
Gives  me  expression  of  a  kind; 
But  it  is  faulty,  harsh,  not  plain — 
My  work  has  the  incompetence  of  pain. 

I  am  consumed  with  slow  fire, 

For  righteousness  is  my  desire; 

Towards  that  good  goal  I  cannot  whip  my  will, 

I  am  a  tired  horse  that  jibs  upon  a  hill. 

I  desire  Virtue,  though  I  love  her  not — 
I  have  no  faith  in  her  when  she  is  got: 
I  fear  that  she  will  bind  and  make  me  slave, 
And  send  me  songless  to  the  sullen  grave. 

I  am  like  a  man  who  fears  to  take  a  wife, 
And  frets  his  soul  with  wantons  all  his  life. 
With  rich,  unholy  foods  I  stuff  my  maw; 
When  I  am  sick,  then  I  believe  in  law. 

I  fear  the  whiteness  of  straight  ways — 
I  think  there  is  no  colour  in  unsullied  days. 
My  silly  sins  I  take  for  my  heart's  ease, 
And  know  my  beauty  in  the  end  disease. 

Of  old  there  were  great  heroes,  strong  in  fight, 
Who,  tense  and  sinless,  kept  a  fire  alight: 
God  of  our  hope,  in  their  great  name, 
Give  me  the  straight  and  ordered  flame. 

35 


TO  D.  M. 


I  WITH  fine  words  wear  all  my  life  away, 

And  lose  good  purpose  with  the  things  I  say; 

Guide  me,  kind  silent  woman,  that  I  give 

One  deed  for  twice  ten  thousand  words,  and  so  I  live. 


THE   MAN  WITH   A  HAMMER 


37 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  HAMMER 

MY  Dear  was  a  mason 
And  I  was  his  stone. 

And  quick  did  he  fashion 
A  house  of  his  own. 

As  fish  in  the  waters, 
As  birds  in  a  tree, 

So  natural  and  blithe  lives 
His  spirit  in  me. 


INVITATION 

COME,  my  Content, 

The  hungry  days  are  spent! — 

Beauty,  illumine  me 

As  sunlight  fills  a  narrow  waveless  sea! 


39 


EXAMINATION 

IF  my  work  is  to  be  good, 

I  must  transcend  skill,  I  must  master  mood. 

For  the  expression  of  the  rare  thing  in  me, 

Is  not  in  do,  but  deeper,  in  to  be. 

Something  of  this  kind  was  meant, 

When  piety  was  likened  to  a  scent. 

A  smell  is  not  a  movement,  not  in  power, 

It  is  a  function  of  a  perfect  flower. 

I  only  compass  something  rare 

By  the  high  form  of  willing  which  is  prayer. 

A  ship  transcendent  and  a  sword  of  fire, 

I  write  my  thought  in  this  most  ragged  way, 

That  being  baulked  of  beauty,  I  am  stung  to  pray. 


RETURN  OF  PLEASURE 

I  THOUGHT  there  was  no  pleasure  in  the  world 
Because  of  my  fears. 

Then  I  remembered  life  and  all  the  words  in  my  language. 
And  I  had  courage  even  to  despise  form.     . 
I  thought,  "  I  have  skill  to  make  words  dance, 
To  clap  hands  and  to  shake  feet, 

But  I  will  put  myself,  and  everything  I  see,  upon  the  page. 
Why  should  I  reject  words  because  of  their  genealogy? 
Or  things,  because  of  their  association? 
Why  should  I  scorn  a  bus  rather  than  a  ship?  " 

40 


FECUNDITY 


FRET  and  strain, 

And  ugly  signs  of  pain, 

Never  yet  had  part 

In  birth  of  Art. 

Men  are  brought  forth  in  grief; 

Labour  for  Beauty  is  a  soul's  relief. 

Expression  is  conceived,  and  has  its  shape, 

Of  Sloth's  most  painful,  violent  rape. 

A  spirit  big  with  Beauty  shall  be  discontent, 

She  knows  all  rapture  when  her  time  is  spent. 

Go!  my  sick  striving  spirit,  seek 

A  simple,  swift,  victorious  technique! 


RESOLUTION 

I  WILL  not  draw  only  a  house  or  a  tree, 

I  will  draw  very  Me; 

Everything  I  think,  everything  I  see! 

I  will  have  no  shame, 

No  hope  of  praise  nor  fear  of  blame! 

These  things  are  mean  things,  and  the  same. 

I  am  the  product  of  old  laws, 

Old  effect  of  old  cause. 

The  thing  that  is,  may  make  the  blind  gods  pause. 


FORMALIST 

j^s  men  whose  bones  are  wind-blown  dust,  have  sung, 

Let  me  sing  now ! 

I'll  sing  of  gourds,  and  goads,  of  honey,  and  the  plouj 

I  am  a  raw  uneasy  parvenu, 

I  am  uncertain  of  my  time. 

How  can  I  pour  the  liquor  of  new  days 

In  the  old  pipes  of  Rhyme? 


COMMENT 

TONE 

Is  utterly  my  own. 

Far  less  exterior  than  skill, 

It  comes  from  the  deep  centre  of  the  will ; 

For  nobler  qualities  of  Song, 

Not  singing,  but  the  singer  must  be  strong. 


NOTE  ON  RHYME 

LIKENESS  of  sound, 

With  just  enough  of  difference 

To  make  a  change  of  sense; 

So  we  have  contrast, 

A  piquancy, 

And  a  certain  victory  of  contrivance. 

But  Heaven  keep  us  from  an  inevitable  rhyme, 

Or  from  a  rhyme  prepared! 

Rhymed  verse  is  a  wide  net 

Through  which  many  subtleties  escape. 

Nor  would  I  take  it  to  capture  a  strong  thing, 

Such  as  a  whale. 


43 


THE  POET  IN  THE  HOUSE 

A  SMALL  oak  grew  in  an  elder-hedge, 

Rustling  with  growth,  he  said, 

"  I  am  an  oak,  an  oak!  " 

The  elders  bent  to  him  with  heavy  scent, 

Taunting,  "  O,  little  weed!  " 

The  oak  shrank  into  himself,  and  made  ready  to  die. 

But  a  wave  of  courage  swept  over  him 

Deep  from  the-heart  of  his  mother-oak. 

He  drew  himself  up  with  passion,  crying  still, 

"  I  am  an  oak." 

He  pressed  himself  against  the  coward  leaves, 

Up  against  the  heavy  scent, 

And  he  prevailed! 

In  future  days,  there  will  be  no  elder-hedge, 

Only  an  oak. 


FEAR  OF  THE  SUPREME 

I  DREAMED  that  I  was  hungry  all  day  long 

Until  at  night  I  ate  a  song. 

It  was  as  if  I  dined  upon  the  Host,  and  so  was  satisfied; 

But  of  ecstatic  surfeit  quick  I  died. 

0!  Love,  come  to  me  now,  and  hold  me  fast, 
Lest  I  should  eat  that  deadly  food  at  last. 

44 


A  WOMAN  IN  BED 

SOMETIMES  when  I  go  to  rest 
I  lie  and  struggle  for  expression, 
And  failing,  fall  to  sick  depression, 
And  beat  my  breast. 

By  blows,  I  cannot  'scape 
The  utter  irritation 
Of  my  poor  soul's  frustration, 
For  so  I  know  my  shape. 

And  often  have  I  found 
An  added  sadness, 
Bringing  me  to  madness, 
Because  my  breast  is  round. 

How  can  I,  being  woman, 

Dedicate  nights 

Which  should  be  sacred  to  delights, 

To  this  lust  of  words,  which  is  so  broadly  human! 

But  through  the  well-clothed  days 

I  can  forget  my  skirt; 

I  hide  my  breast  beneath  a  workman's  shirt, 

And  hunt  the  perfect  phrase. 


45 


THE  RECLUSE 

I'M  tired  of  living  in  the  town, 

Of  trailing  up,  and  trailing  down. 

My  very  heart  feels  like  a  street, 

Sullied  with  busy  living  ana  with  dusty  feet. 

Nor  is  there  any  peace  for  me  in  fields, 
There  I  remember  crops  and  market-yields. 
In  the  quiet  cow  I  have  no  gain, 
For  she  recalls  loud  milk-cans  on  a  train. 

I  dream  that  there  is  harbourage  for  me, 

In  the  blue  breath  of  some  remoter  sea, 

On  a  brown  rock  weed-tipt  to  malachite, 

Where  sea-gulls  wheeling  from  their  track,  alight. 

There  I  would  live,  with  gulls'-eggs  for  my  food, 

My  only  recreation,  to  be  good, 

With  only  passing  Time  for  fate, 

Free  of  my  friends,  and  cool  without  a  mate. 


DEMAND 


GIVE  me  an  hour 

Of  perfect  freedom  and  of  power! — 
When  I  see  done 

All  things  I  longed  for  'neath  the  Sun — 
Then  let  me  die 
A  flame-burst  to  the  Sky! 
46 


THE  TIRED  WOMAN 

0  MY  Lover,  blind  me, 

Take  your  cords  and  bind  me. 
Then  drive  me  through  a  silent  land 
With  the  compelling  of  your  open  hand! 

There  is  too  much  of  sound,  too  much  for  sight, 
In  thundrous  lightnings  of  this  night, 
There  is  too  much  of  freedom  for  my  feet, 
Bruised  by  the  stones  of  this  disordered  street. 

1  know  that  there  is  sweetest  rest  for  me, 
In  silent  fields,  and  in  captivity. 

O  Lover!  drive  me  through  a  stilly  land 
With  the  compelling  of  your  open  hand. 


47 


THE  UNREMITTING  WEARINESS 

I  AM  so  tired  I  cannot  move, 
I  would  sit  still  and  love. 
I  carried  souls  so  long  in  pain, 
I  too  would  be  a  child  again. 

Man  who  is  not  child  to  woman 
Is  either  rogue  or  more  than  human. — 
I  rested  once  upon  my  father's  strength: 
O  to  find  peace  in  love  at  length! 

Man,  are  you  strong  to  take  my  proffered  hand, 
And  to  be  kind  when  you  command? 
There  was  a  saint  who  carried  children  up  a  steep, 
Make  me  your  child,  and  let  me  sleep. 


THE  WIFE 


I  HAVE  no  rest, 

I  am  a  guest  at  best, 

I  can  be  driven  from  the  house, 

Like  bat  or  mouse, 

If  I  please  not  the  house's  lord, 

For  bed  and  board. 

I  spend  my  days 

In  dull  sequestered  ways, 

Without  right  to  praise. 

My  brain  dies 

For  want  of  exercise, 

I  dare  not  speak, 

For  I  am  weak. 

Twere  better  for  my  man  and  me, 

If  I  were  free, 

Not  to  be  done  by,  but  to  be. 

But  I  am  tied, 

Free  movement  is  denied. 

I  am  a  man's  wife 

For  all  my  life! 


49 


WOMAN  DETERMINES  TO  TAKE 
HER  OWN  ADVICE 

THIS  is  too  rare  a  festival  for  joy, 
As  was  that  joy  too  rare  for  my  worn  kisses, 
When  first  I  put  a  babe  to  my  good  breast. 
Then  was  my  body  justified,  with  love, 
And  all  such  enterprise. 

When  I  conceived  that  good  plan 
I  made  no  feudal  compact  with  my  man, 
For  in  my  body's  service  is  not  found 
A  warrant  that  my  will  be  always  bound. 

Now,  being  mother,  this  I  see 

I  am  thrice  woman,  and  the  soul  of  me 

Is  herded  to  an  end  I  never  sought 

Like  cow  or  sheep,  and  my  desire  is  naught. 

Who  can  my  fuller  need  divine, 
From  the  curved  symbol  of  my  body's  line? 
So  for  a  simple  accident  of  shape, 
Compass  all  ruin  with  my  soul's  rape. 

This  is  too  rare  a  festival  for  joy, 

For  a  new  thing  is  born  of  other  labours. 

I  will  break  an  heirloom,  shout  and  stamp  for  this 

victory. 

I  will  fling  my  freedom  at  the  stars, 
And  with  a  good  conceit  think  so  to  shake  the 

spheres. 

So 


And  when  shall  Heaven  tremble, 
But  when  tired  eyes, 
Scanning  long  empty  spaces, 
So  see  God. 

OUTLINE 

MAN  I  shall  beget  to-morrow. 

Where  is  he? 

Life  a  load,  the  load  a  sorrow, 

Better  not  to  be. 

Man  I  shall  beget  to-morrow, 

Non-existent?    Where  is  he? 

He  is  spread  in  fields  of  wheat, 
Low  in  grass  that  cows  shall  eat. 
There  are  fragments  of  himself 
High  upon  some  warehouse  shelf. 
Any  atom  he  may  be, 
Any  atom  may  be  he. 

She  the  focus  will  control, 

The  new  body,  but  the  soul? 

That  is  free. 

The  husk  is  made  of  any  meat, 

Any  grass  or  any  wheat. 

But  man  has  personality; 

He  alone  is  he, 

The  man  is  I  get  to-morrow 

Whole  in  destiny. 

f 

Can  I  then  be  free? 


DEFINITION 

WHAT  is  a  wife? 

Is  it  she  who  stays  in  a  man's  house  for  all  her  life? — 

If  wife  were  nothing  more  than  that 

Then  she  were  equalled  by  a  homing  cat. 

What  is  a  wife?    Shall  it  be  said 
She  who  by  contract  shares  a  bed? — 
Go  find  a  thousand  wives  complete 
In  girls  that  flaunt  along  the  street! 

Nor  is  it  she,  content  with  sequence  from  a  cause, 
Who,  like  a  field  increase  by  just  laws, 
And  from  a  habit  and  with  no  end  clear, 
Brings  forth  a  child  for  every  wedded  year. 

Wives  are  the  dreaming  mothers  come  again 
Who  of  blest  fertile  love  bear  souls  of  men! 
Sometimes,  with  kindly  silence,  sometimes  with  stinging 

speech 
Put  a  man's  high  attainment  well  within  his  reach. 

There  is  a  Virgin-Mother,  shrined  in  Christianity, 
There  is  a  virgin  wife  in  faiths  to  be, 
For  the  constructive  form-inducing  principle  for  life, 
Is  she  unknown,  unnamed  God's  wife, 
Who  out  of  crystal-bearing  water  drew  the  higher  ape: — 
She  might  give  even  Socialism  shape! 

52 


THE  ANGRY  WOMAN 

I  AM  a  woman,  with  a  woman's  parts, 
And  of  love  I  bear  children. 
In  the  days  of  bearing  is  my  body  weak, 
But  why  because  I  do  you  service,  should  you  call  me 
slave? 

I  am  a  woman  in  my  speech  and  gait, 

I  have  no  beard  (I'll  take  no  blame  for  that! ) 

In  many  things  are  you  and  I  apart, 

But  there  are  regions  where  we  coincide, 

Where  law  for  one  is  law  for  both. 

There  is  the  sexless  part  of  me  that  is  my  mind. 

You  calculate  the  distance  of  a  star, 

I,  thanks  to  this  free  age,  can  count  as  well, 

And  by  the  very  processes  you  use. 

When  we  think  differently  of  two  times  two, 

I'll  own  a  universal  mastery  in  you! — 

Now  of  marriage, — 

In  marriage  there  are  many  mansions, 

(This  has  been  said  of  Heaven). 

Shall  you  rule  all  the  houses  of  your  choice 

Because  of  manhood  or  because  of  strength? 

If  I  must  own  your  manhood  synonym  for  every  strength, 

Then  must  I  lie. 

53 


If  sex  is  a  criterion  for  power,  and  never  strength, 

Who  do  we  gain  by  union? 

I  lose  all,  while  nothing  worthy  is  so  gained  by  you, 

0  most  blessed  bond! 

Because  of  marriage,  I  have  motherhood. 
That  is  much,  and  yet  not  all! 
By  the  same  miracle  that  makes  me  mother 
Are  you  father. 

It  is  a  double  honour! 

Are  you  content  to  be  from  henceforth  only  father, 

And  in  no  other  way  a  man? 

A  fantastic  creature  like  a  thing  of  dreams 

That  has  so  great  an  eye  it  has  no  head. 

1  am  not  mother  to  abstract  Childhood,  but  to  my  son, 
And  how  can  I  serve  my  son,  but  to  be  much  myself? 

My  motherhood  must  boast  some  qualities, 

For  as  motherhood  is  diverse 

So  shall  men  be  many  charactered 

And  show  variety,  as  this  world  needs. 

Shall  I  for  ever  brush  my  infant's  hair? 
Cumber  his  body  in  conceited  needle-work? 
Or  shall  I  save  some  pains  till  he  is  grown? 
Show  him  the  consolation  of  mathematics 
And  let  him  laugh  with  me  when  I  am  old? 

54 


If  he  is  my  true  son, 

He  will  find  more  joy  in  number  and  laughter 

Than  in  all  these  other  things. 

Why  should  dull  custom  make  my  son  my  enemy 

So  that  the  privilege  of  his  manhood  is  to  leave  my 

house? 
You  would  hold  knowledge  from  me  because  I  am  a 

mother, 

Rather  for  this  reason  let  me  be  wise,  and  very  strong, — 
Power  should  be  added  to  power. 

And  now  of  love!  — 

There  are  many  loves. 

There  is  love,  which  is  physiology, 

And  love,  which  has  no  more  matter  in  it  than  is  in  the 

mind. 

There  is  spiritual  love,  and  there  is  good  affection. 
All  these  loves  women  need,  and  most  of  all  the  last. 

Kiss  me  sometimes  in  the  light. 
Women  have  body's  pain  of  body's  love. 
Let  me  have  flowers  sometimes,  and  always  joy. 
And  sometimes  let  me  take  your  hand  and  kiss  you  hon- 
estly 

Losing  nothing  in  dignity  by  frank  love. 
If  I  must  fly  in  love  and  follow  in  life, 
Doing  both  things  falsely, 
Then  am  I  a  mime, 
I  have  no  free  soul. 

55 


Man!     For  your  sake  and  for  mine,  and  for  the  sake  of 

future  men, 

Let  me  speak  my  mind  in  life  and  love. 
Be  strong  for  love  of  a  strong  mate, 
Do  not  ask  my  weakness  as  a  sacrifice  of  power. 
When  you  deny  me  justice 

I  feel  as  if  my  body  were  in  grip  of  a  cold  octopus, 
While  my  heart  is  crushed  to  stone. 

This  rapture  have  I  of  pretence! 


SONG  OF  THE  LOW-CASTE  WIFE 

What  have  you  given  me  for  my  strong  sons? 

O  scion  of  kings! 

In  new  veins  the  blood  of  old  kings  runs  cold. 

Your  people  thinking  of  old  victories,  lose  the  lust  of 

conquest, 

Your  men  guard  what  they  have, 
Your  women  nurse  their  silver  pots. 
Dead  beauty  mocks  hot  blood! 
What  shall  these  women  conceive  of  their  chill  loves 
But  still  more  pots? 

But  I  have  conceived  of  you  new  men; 

Boys  brave  from  the  breast, 

Running  and  striving  like  no  children  of  your  House, 

And  with  their  brave  new  brains 

Making  new  myth. 

My  people  were  without,  while  yours  were  kings. 

They  sang  the  song  of  exile  in  low  places 

And  in  the  stress  of  growth  knew  pain. 

The  unprepared  world  pressed  hard  upon  them; 

Women  bent  beneath  burdens,  while  cold  struck  babes, 

But  they  arose  strong  from  the  fight, 

Hungry  from  their  oppression. 

And  I  am  full  of  lust, 

Which  is  not  stayed  with  your  old  glories. 

Give  me  for  all  old  things  that  greatest  glory — 

A  little  growth. 

57 


Am  I  your  mate  because  I  share  your  bed? 

Go  then!    Find  each  day  a  new  mate  outside  your  house. 

I  am  your  mate  if  I  can  share  your  vision. 

Have  you  no  vision,  king-descended? 

Come  share  mine! 

Will  you  give  me  this,  for  your  sons? 

0  scion  of  kings! 


TO  THE  SILENT  MAN 

THAT  you  should  love  is  not  enough  for  me, 

Come  tell  your  love  with  pleasing  courtesy. 

I  keep  no  faith  in  silence,  I  am  wild  and  weak; 

Now  by  the  beauty  of  all  wandering  fires,  I  beg  you  speak. 

Here  is  a  rout  of  whispered  loves  and  laughter, 

And  I  must  turn  about  and  follow  after. 

To  hymn  Love,  to  live  because  of  Beauty, 

That  is  Love's  life,  that  is  a  lover's  duty. 

Can  you  not  see  I  weep  because  I  go? 

Speak,  dumb  Man!    Speak!    Say,  shall  I  stay  or  no? 


SUPPLICATION 

I  STRETCH  starved  hands  through  the  night, 

Praying  for  tenderness. 

Mary!     From  your  calm  height, 

Pity  my  loneliness! 

Incline  a  heart  to  loving-kindness, 

Which  strikes  me  dead  of  cold,  because  of  blindness. 


THE  WIFE'S  SONG.— I 

I  WOULD  carry  you  in  my  arms, 

My  strong  One, 

As  if  you  were  a  child; 

Over  the  long  grass  plains  by  the  sea, 

Where  dunes  are  piled. 

In  the  grey  light  of  day  that  is  late 

Against  wind  from  the  sea  I  would  carry  your  weight, 

Till  my  body  faint,  but  for  love's  control, 

My  soul  will  not  faint  to  carry  your  soul. 

I,  who  so  weak  had  fallen  to  Hell, 
Carry  my  load,  and  my  Love's  load  well. 
Old  Sea,  let  us  be  steadfast! 
New  Hills,  give  us  hope  of  change! 
Wind  from  the  sea,  cleanse  us! 
And  you — O  Pain,  and  Heaviness, 
Sanctify  me!    Sanctify  me! 
59 


THE  WIFE'S  SONG.— II 

Two  gifts  I  gave  you,  Love  and  Sorrow, 
Of  which  the  last  is  best, 
But  O,  my  Dear!     'Twas  bitter  giving, 
Come  here  to  me  and  rest. 

What  victory  shall  your  world  deny  you, 
Now  you  have  wept? 
All  peace  of  love  I  will  restore  you 
When  you  have  slept. 


CREATRIX 

LET  us  thank  Almighty  God 

For  the  woman  with  the  rod. 

Who  was  ever  and  is  now 

Strong  essential  as  the  plough. 

She  shall  goad  and  she  shall  drive, 

So  to  keep  man's  soul  alive. 

Amoris  with  her  scented  dress 

Beckons,  in  pretty  wantonness; 

But  the  wife  drives,  nor  can  man  tell 

What  hands  so  urge,  what  powers  compel. 


60 


THE  SHREW 

You  wish,  O  master  of  my  destiny, 

That  I  control  myself! 

'Twere  better  you  ruled  me. 

For  if  I  rule  myself,  I  smile  at  you,  and  hate. 

If  you  rule  me,  I  love  you  though  I  curse,  O  mate! 


REWARD 

There  is  great  gain, 

Of  pride  and  pain: 

Let  me  be  proud  to  claim  the  highest  for  my  own: 

Let  me  bear  pain,  to  fight  my  claim  alone.' 


61 


THE  SAD  LOVER 


I  WEEP  for  happy-sweet  days 
When  your  love  was  near  me 
Strong  in  its  magical  ways, 
To  hold  and  cheer  me! 

To  my  sad  broken  life, 
Your  love  had  given, 
For  endless,  hopeless  strife, 
Peace  of  high  Heaven. 

I  thought  your  charmed  cure 
Could  have  no  ending, 
And  shall  no  spell  endure 
Of  your  dear  befriending? 

As  a  dead  miser  yearns 
For  earth-stored  treasure, 
So  fiercely  my  soul  burns 
For  old  sweet  pleasure 

Chilled  by  the  bitter  power 
Of  sodden  sinning, 
I  find  no  splendid  hour 
As  at  love's  beginning. 

Now  that  my  faith  is  weak, 
Fearful  I  meet  you! 
Like  a  shy  stranger  speak, 
When  joy  should  greet  you. 
62 


I  deep  in  sorrow  sing, 

My  passion  proving, 

"  There  is  one  beautiful  thing, 

Your  tender  loving." 

Weep!    Weep!  for  happy-sweet  days, 
When  your  love  was  near  me, 
Come  from  your  solitary  ways, 
To  hold  and  cheer  me. 


THE  ARTIFICER 

I  FEEX  that  your  neglect  has  flayed  my  soul 
And  left  it  a  sore,  bleeding,  pulsing  whole! 
I  feel  there  is  hot  fire  in  pain, 
To  boil  the  iron-pot  that  is  my  brain! 

All  my  experience,  all  my  thoughts  and  dreams, 
Bubble  together,  and  the  mixture  steams; 
In  lovely  shapes  the  bluey  vapours  rise, 
Angels  and  kindly  goddesses  console  my  eyes. 

Into  the  boiling  pot  I  plunge  my  spoon, 
And  of  hot  misery  receive  my  boon, 
For  from  the  viscid  liquor  make  I  shapes, 
Fairies  and  goblins,  little  goats  and  apes. 

Many-hued  jewels,  gem-like  flowers, 
Bright  beads  to  count  kind  prayers  and  happy  hours; 
Once  from  the  pot  a  crystal  sphere  I  wrought, 
It  was  a  new,  clear,  and  quite  splendid  thought. 
63 


NECROMACY 

IF  she  could  take  two  types  of  man, 

Man  that  she  loves,  and  man  that  she  desires, 

And  fuse  them  in  a  magic  pan, 

Over  the  holy  fires, 

She  might  by  Sorcery  discover 

A  perfect  Lover. 

But  she  must  build  her  Paradise  above  her, 
Inherit  Heaven  after  she  is  old, 
For  she  can  find  no  pleasant  Love  to  love  her, 
The  world  is  void  of  pleasure,  and  death-cold. 


THE  RECOMPENSE 

OF  every  step  I  took  in  pain 

I  had  some  gain. 

Of  every  night  of  blind  excess 

I  had  reward  of  half-dead  idleness. 

Back  to  the  lone  road 

With  the  old  load! 

But  rest  at  night  is  sweet 

To  wounded  feet. 

And  when  the  day  is  long, 

There  is  miraculous  reward  of  song. 


64 


FLAGELLANT 

HAPPINESS  is  like  a  kind  wife, 
Within  her  rounded  arms,  she  carries  Sleep. 
But  I  who  am  mad  for  Ecstasy,  would  keep 
The  favour  of  my  mistress,  Sorrow,  all  my  life. 

For  Sorrow's  sake, 

Through  the  dark  hours  I  lie  awake. 

So  that  my  songs  shall  greet  a  day, 

Which  has  forgot  the  pleasures  of  my  clay. 

THE  STORMY  MOON 

I  SAID,  "  I  cannot  look  at  beauty, 

For  I  am  heavy  with  desire; 

I  cannot  touch  this  child's  sweet  hair, 

My  hand  is  fire." 

0!  I  was  desolate, 

Burned  dry  and  white, 

Shut  out  from  all  kind  comfort, 

In  the  hungry  night. 

I  did  not  heed  the  dark  about  me, 
My  head  was  bowed. 

A  scurrying  wind  came  down  and  smote  me, 
Till  I  remembered  cloud. 
I  raised  my  eyes  to  a  wild  cloud-drift, 
And  saw  the  travelling  Moon. 
Beauty  and  cold  were  so  restored  me, 
And  peace  came  soon. 
65 


WORDS 


THERE  came  a  lazy  Celt, 
Sunny  and  gay, 

And  he  caused  black  ice  to  melt 
With  the  things  that  he  did  say. 

He  said,  "  O!  My  Desire, 
Behold  your  Lover  stands, 
His  heart  a  cage  of  fire; 
Come!    Warm  cold  hands." 

He  said,  "0!  My  Delight, 
Be  happy  and  be  brave, 
Weep  no  more  for  fright, 
For  I  am  a  cave. 

And  I  am  kind  and  warm 
And  shut  from  icy  air, 
Where  you  shall  find  no  harm 
But  live  like  a  small  brown  bear. 

O!    Shelter  in  me,  Sweet, 

And  let  me  give  you  rest, 

For  I  love  your  hair  and  your  feet, 

And  your  pleasant  moving  breast." 


66 


ABDICATION 

0  JUDGMENT  sleep? 

1  love  an  unkind  thief. 
Let  me  be  friend  of  Frailty 
For  my  sick  heart's  relief. 

I  would  be  as  the  shore's  sand 
Subject  to  an  advancing  sea, 
I  would  be  as  sunken  land 
Swept  by  a  tide's  strong  mastery. 

But  my  contemning  mind  is  as  a  lighthouse  tower, 

And  I  am  sore  for  strength,  and  lashed  because  of  power. 


ASEPTIC 


To  live  on  a  sterile  hill 
Suits  not  my  mood, 
I'll  walk  in  towns  my  fill, 
With  strong  resisting  blood. 

There  is  no  virtue  in  stark  fear, 
Whether  it  be  of  Sin  or  Death, 
But  there  is  pride  in  walking  clear, 
Through  Plague's  contaminating  breath. 


67 


DIVORCE 

A  VOICE  from  the  dark  is  calling  me. 

In  the  close  house  I  nurse  a  fire. 

Out  in  the  dark,  cold  winds  rush  free, 

To  the  rock  heights  of  my  desire. 

I  smother  in  the  house  in  the  valley  below, 

Let  me  out  to  the  night,  let  me  go,  let  me  go! 

Spirits  that  ride  the  sweeping  blast, 

Frozen  in  rigid  tenderness, 

Wait!    For  I  leave  the  fire  at  last, 

My  little-love's  warm  loneliness. 

I  smother  in  the  house  in  the  valley  below, 

Let  me  out  to  the  night,  let  me  go,  let  me  go! 

High  on  the  hills  are  beating  drums. 

Clear  from  a  line  of  marching  men 

To  the  rock's  edge  the  hero  comes. 

He  calls  me,  and  he  calls  again. 

On  the  hill  there  is  fighting,  victory,  or  quick  death, 

In  the  house  is  the  fire,  which  I  fan  with  sick  breath. 

I  smother  in  the  house  in  the  valley  below, 

Let  me  out  to  the  dark,  let  me  go,  let  me  go! 


68 


NERVOUS  PROSTRATION 

I  MARRIED  a  man  of  the  Croydon  class 

When  I  was  twenty-two. 

And  I  vex  him,  and  he  bores  me 

Till  we  don't  know  what  to  do! 

It  isn't  good  form  in  the  Croydon  class 

To  say  you  love  your  wife, 

So  I  spend  my  days  with  the  tradesmen's  books 

And  pray  for  the  end  of  life. 

In  green  fields  are  blossoming  trees 

And  a  golden  wealth  of  gorse, 

And  young  birds  sing  for  joy  of  worms: 

It's  perfectly  clear,  of  course, 

That  it  wouldn't  be  taste  in  the  Croydon  class 

To  sing  over  dinner  or  tea: 

But  I  sometimes  wish  the  gentleman 

Would  turn  and  talk  to  me! 


But  every  man  of  the  Croydon  class 
Lives  in  terror  of  joy  and  speech. 
"  Words  are  betrayers,"  "  Joys  are  brief  " — 
The  maxims  their  wise  ones  teach — 
And  for  all  my  labour  of  love  and  life 
I  shall  be  clothed  and  fed, 
And  they'll  give  me  an  orderly  funeral 
When  I'm  still  enough  to  be  dead. 
69 


I  married  a  man  of  the  Croydon  class 

When  I  was  twenty-two. 

And  I  vex  him,  and  he  bores  me 

Till  we  don't  know  what  to  do! 

And  as  I  sit  in  his  ordered  house, 

I  feel  I  must  sob  or  shriek, 

To  force  a  man  of  the  Croydon  class 

To  live,  or  to  love,  or  to  speak! 


RETROSPECT 

YOUR  talk  was  most  in  praise  of  these  poor  features, 
And  of  my  body — not  unequalled  'mongst  God's  crea- 
tures. 

And  even  did  your  courteous  fancy  find 
Some  small  perfection  in  a  woman's  mind. 
But  of  my  soul,  sir,  not  a  word! 
Till  your  quite  reasonable  anger  stirred 
To  bring  our  love  to  sudden  wreck. 
'Twas  then  you  stayed  my  ecstasies 
With  truth!    Which  ended  in  this  wise: — 
"  Woman!    Your  soul's  a  stone  about  your  neck." 

Maybe  our  love  had  happier  consummation 
Had  this  part  known  more  quick  consideration  1 


70 


THE  PIONEER 


GOD  send  that  never  I  speak  truth  again! 
It's  too  strong  meat  for  these  most  silly  men! 
God  send  that  never  in  my  life  I  lie! 
God  give  me  blessed  silence  till  I  die! 


TRADUCERS 

KINDER  the  enemy  who  must  malign  us, 
Than  the  smug  friend  who  will  define  us 

THE  CHOICE 

Two  lovers  wooed  a  woman. 

The  first  was  very  kind  and  courtly,  and  he  said — 

"  I  offer  you  my  honourable  name, 

And  all  the  things  there  are  to  do,  I  do, 

And  everything  you  wish  for  I  will  give, 

And  you  will  be  my  lady,  I  your  knight." 

But  the  other  smiled  and  said — 
"  Our  love  is  late,  I  have  no  house  to  offer  you, 
But  one  good  gift — yourself. 
And  you  shall  walk  with  me  without  constraint, 
And  all  your  words  my  wit  shall  understand, 
And  when  our  eyes  meet  full,  we  two  shall  smile, 
And  you  will  be  my  woman,  I  your  man, 
And  you  shall  serve  me." 

Then  the  woman  came  softly  to  that  man's  side,  and  sat 
her  down. 


THE  PROMISE 

I  WILL  not  love  you  for  my  duty, 

Nor  for  all  your  treasure, 

But  I  will  love  because  of  beauty, 

And  because  of  pleasure. 

The  boy  that  I  shall  bear  will  be  a  love-child, 

Conceived  in  holy  blindness, 

I  give  him  to  the  world  who  shall  be  reconciled 

To  loving-kindness. 

Since  I  no  longer  love  for  duty, 

Nor  for  all  man's  treasure, 

And  since  I  bear  the  child  to  Beauty 

Because  of  pleasure. 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


GENTLEMEN  came  wooing  me 

From  north,  east,  west  and  south, 

And  each  was  afire 

With  quick  desire 

With  a  hot  kiss  on  his  mouth; 

And  there  was  never  joy  for  me 

From  this  dun,  dull  democracy. 

My  King,  O  my  Delight! 
Who  is  so  strangely  dear, 
Kiss  me  not  to-night, 
Kiss  me  not  for  a  year. 
Let  us  live  lonely  days, 
Keeping  a  holy  fast, 
Walking  rough  hilly  ways, 
So  that  we  meet  at  last, 
Near  fir-trees  on  a  height, 
In  still,  kind,  perfect  night. 


73 


CEREMONY 

BRING  her  rare  unguents,  and  clear  scented  water, 
And  a  gold  gown,  fit  for  a  king's  white  daughter. 
Bring  mounds  of  flowers  that  she  may  spill  about, 
And  herbs  to  make  sweet  smoke  ere  she  goes  out. 
The  victor  is  this  maid's  delight, 
And  he  keeps  tryst  to-night. 


SERVICE 

I  LOVE  you  so  entirely 

I  cannot  think  to  please  you, 

My  art  is  wasted. 

You  are  burnt  with  madness, 

My  being  burns  to  ease  you. 

In  dreams  of  utter  service, 

Is  all  sweetness  tasted. 

I  love  you  so  entirely, 

I  want  you  not  to  praise  me! 

I  would  be  low  in  all  esteem! 

I  would  be  outcast  with  one  thing  to  raise  me, 

The  hope  of  service  I  have  gathered  in  a  dream. 

Let  us  go  to  the  mountains,  O  my  Lover! 
And  make  our  habitation  near  the  sky; 
In  clear,  cool  air  we  can  discover 
A  plan  of  perfect  living,  you  and  I. 
74 


THE  CRUEL  LOVER 

I  ASK  your  pardon  that  your  pain 
Should  be  so  quick  your  lover's  gain. 
But  when  I  know  your  love's  distress, 
My  heart  leaps  high  with  happiness. 
It  sends  kind  tincture  to  my  lips, 
I  walk  with  a  new  rhythm  from  the  hips. 


REMEMBRANCE 

WHAT  shall  I  do  with  my  marriage  dress? 

In  which  I  walked  the  lover's  way? 

Shall  I  wear  it  in  forgetfulness, 

Through  a  less  honoured  day? 

Shall  fastenings  he  has  drawn  for  his  delight, 

Be  loosed  by  a  less  honoured  hand,  at  night? 


STATE  ENDOWMENT 

FLOWERS  all  natural  sweet, 
That  women  sell  on  baskets  in  the  street, 
Lose  half  their  beauty  in  my  eyes, 
They  are  a  huckster's  merchandise. 

Who  offers,  then,  to  buy  from  me 
That  natural  service,  my  maternity? 
75 


ORDEAL 


I  CAN  endure  the  blight  of  drought 
And  the  black  rigour  of  my  wild, 
But  not  the  name  of  Beauty  on  his  mouth 
And  not  to  see  him  with  a  child. 


THE  FAITHFUL  MOTHER 

I  COULD  not  be  withheld  from  you  by  iron  bands, 

All  cerements  would  be  riven, 

That  we  should  claim  our  heaven, 

But  I  am  here  in  bondage,  to  these  little,  little  hands! 

If  I  unclasp  the  tender  fingers  and  walk  free, 

Our  love  shall  have  no  gain 

From  that  poor  hopeless  pain, 

For  I  shall  lose  my  soul  because  of  infamy. 

0!    Shall  I  walk  your  sunny  gardens  a  cold  ghost, 
And  will  you  cover  me  with  flowers, 
That  I  may  spend  sequestered  hours, 
Weeping  the  lovelier  Blossoms  I  have  lost! 

I  could  not  be  withheld  from  you  by  iron  bands, 
All  cerements  would  be  riven, 
That  we  should  claim  our  heaven, 
But  I  am  here  in  bondage,  to  these  little,  little  hands! 
76 


AFTER  ANNUNCIATION 


REST,  little  Guest, 

Beneath  my  breast. 

Feed,  sweet  Seed, 

At  your  need. 

I  took  Love  for  my  lord 

And  this  is  my  reward, 

My  body  is  good  earth, 

That  you,  dear  Plant,  have  birth. 


A  BOY'S  MOUTH 

His  lips  are  open,  since  his  mind 

Delights  in  work  his  ringers  find. 

In  that  red  arch  I  see  a  gate, 

Where  gracious  Loves  might  pass  in  state. 

Sure  his  white  body  were  fit  habitation 

For  a  whole  fairy  population. 


77 


THE  MOTHER-IN-LAW 

THIS  is  what  my  lover  said, 

"  I  kissed  your  hat  because  it  touched  your  head, 

I  kissed  your  shiny  shoes,  I'll  kiss  you  all, 

I  love  your  house,  I'll  kiss  your  wall. 

I  wish  that  I  could  kiss  that  burning  coal 

Because  it's  in  your  fire,  dear  Soul!  " 

My  little  Son  is  my  fond  lover — 

It  seems  no  time  ago  since  he  was  born. 

I  know  he  will  be  quick  and  happy  to  discover 

The  world  of  other  women,  and  leave  me  forlorn! 

Sometimes  I  think  that  I'll  be  scarcely  human 

If  I  can  brook  his  chosen  woman! 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

WHEN  I  get  a  child, 

I  get  him  with  fixed  intent; 

I  don't  get  him  by  accident. 

I  get  him  because  I  am  content  with  life, 

Satisfied  with  myself, 

And  because  I  love  my  wife. 

When  the  child  is  born, 

I  am  full  of  scorn 

At  thought  of  other  children. 

By  instinct  I  divine 

Ther,e  never  was  so  fine  a  boy  as  mine. 

I  think  this,  because  I  am  satisfied  with  life, 

Conceited  with  myself, 

And  because  I  love  my  wife. 

And  I  want  to  keep  my  son, 

I  want  to  finish  what  I  have  begun. 

It  is  one  of  the  keenest  pleasures  that  I  know 

To  feed  a  child  and  watch  him  grow. 

I  don't  want  to  give  him  to  the  State; 

I  want  to  share  him  with  my  mate. 

I  like  going  into  hustling  life, 

To  bring  back  something  for  my  boy  and  wife. 

I  do  this  because  the  old  Brave 
Hunted  from  the  cave. 
79 


Because  a  lion  in  the  wilderness 
Kills  for  the  cub  and  lioness, 
And  because  I  am  satisfied  with  life, 
Conceited  with  myself, 
And  because  I  love  my  wife. 


So 


THE  WALK 

WE  will  walk  through  this  wood, 
Rustling  through  dead  leaves, 
Crunching  on  fallen  boughs, 
I  will  walk  first,  you  must  follow  me. 
We  will  go  like  beasts  on  a  trail. 
I  am  a  lion,  you  my  lioness. 

I  will  take  my  own  pace, 

You  must  strain  your  curved  brittle  body  to  keep  near 

me. 
I  do  this  because  I  see  in  your  eyes  that  you  will  talk. 

0  wanton!    You  will  stab  me  with  subtleties. 

1  have  no  head  for  economics.    What  of  that? 
Your  eyes,  your  hair,  your  teeth,  your  body, 
You  have  used  against  me, 

And  now  your  mind  is  a  sharp  sword  to  stab  me. 

I  want  to  walk  in  this  wood, 

To  look  at  the  sky,  and  note  the  tracery  of  leaves, 

And  listen  for  an  early  cuckoo. 

But  you  will  have  me  sit  beside  you, 

Tell  you  that  you  are  a  beautiful  woman, 

And  praise  your  wit. 

I  will  not  tell  you  that  you  are  a  beautiful  woman, 
You  are  my  wife! 

You  know  well  that  I  feel  every  stir  of  you, 
Can  you  not  remember  the  touch  of  my  hand  on  your 
arm? 

81 


I  will  say  nothing  at  all  about  your  wit, 
But  I  will  tell  you  this, 
I  think  it  very  possible,  that  one  of  our  sons, 
Yours  and  mine,  will  be  a  man  of  genius. 

0  Jezebel !  I  see  the  triumph  leap  to  your  eyes. 
You  love  your  children  less  than  yourself. 
Are  you  the  only  parent  of  our  son? 

Did  not  my  love  make  you  mother? 

Did  I  not  know  from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw  you, 

Your  splendid  suitability? 

That  act  of  mine  means  more  to  life 

Than  all  your  economics. 

You  shall  not  waste  your  time  with  books! 

1  will  have  other  sons  of  you,  and  perhaps  a  girl. 
I  will  tell  you  that  your  daughter  is  beautiful. 

Now  look  at  me! 

This  only  matters  to  us. 

You  are  a  woman,  I  am  male. 

I  am  male  till  the  last  atom  of  my  tissue  dies. — 

Come  now,  walk! 


82 


ALL  MEN  TO  WOMEN 

You  have  taken  our  life  in  your  hands,  like  a  small  sick 

bird; 

As  you  might  feed  him  with  your  lips,  so  with  your  word 
Have  you  sustained  us;  remembering  your  kind  eyes 
We  have  forgot  our  pitiless  ways,  and  have  grown  wise. 

With  brittle  strength  to  fight  and  to  desire, 
What  do  we  but  bring  fuel  to  your  fire? 
For  our  best  labour,  your  fine  powers  control, 
O  maker  of  man's  body  and  his  soul! 

The  flower  of  all  our  winning  we  would  give 
To  mightier  men,  the  Race  that  is  to  live. 
On  your  good  courage  must  our  victory  rest, 
You  bear  all  future  days  beneath  your  breast. 

O  pitiful  heart!    From  whom  we  draw  our  strength, 
Would  you  have  wisdom?    Know  your  power  at  length, 
From  our  frail  might  grant  us  the  thing  we  seek. 
We  who  are  born  so  small,  and  live  so  weak. 


A  GIRL  IN  SUMMER 

SHE  took  the  summer  to  her  blood 

Through  her  sweet  mouth. 

Until  her  sleepy  mood 

Was  warm  as  sunny  walls  of  the  old  south. 

It  seemed  the  yellow  light 

Had  fruitful  powers, 

Beneath  her  bosom's  white 

Leapt  sudden  flowers. 

Each  round  as  the  breast 

From  whose  dear  core  it  sprang, 

And  in  the  middle  of  each  flower  a  nest, 

In  which  a  young  bird  sang; 

Sang  for  joy  of  a  coming 

And  for  joy  of  a  name, 

And  the  petals  of  the  flower 

Leapt  like  flame. 

Driving  with  a  sweet  compelling 

Towards  his  dwelling, 

As  her  singing  birds  were  telling. 


THE  ANCHORITE 

YE  Chaste,  who  nurse  your  souls  upon  chill  heights, 
What  can  you  give  us  but  a  dead  world? 

I  have  walked  too  long  in  the  strait  road, 

I  have  kept  my  limbs  from  the  dance, 

I  have  flung  no  songs  to  the  Stars. 

What  have  I  for  my  stillness,  but  a  tale  of  things  undone! 

Rather  had  I  borne  the  common  yoke, 
Better  had  I  made  a  fellow  of  Sin 
Than  win  this  sterile  victory. 

O!  moving  Powers,  inflame  me, 
Lead  me  to  some  brave  combat, 
Though  then  you  throw  me  to  deep  Hell 
With  one  full  memory. 

Now  I  surrender  a  pale  heaven 

Of  unbegotten  spirits,  and  of  unfilled  days. 


THE  SONG-MAKER 

I  WOULD  live  for  a  day  and  a  night, 
In  the  rigorous  land  where  everything's  right. 
Then  I  would  sit  and  make  a  song, 
In  the  leisurely  land  where  everything's  wrong. 
85 


IMPERATRIX 

AM  I  pleasant? 

Tell  me  that,  old  Wise! 

Let  me  look  into  your  eyes, 

To  see  if  you  can  comprehend  my  beauty, 

That  is  a  lover's  duty. 

I  look  at  you  to  see 

If  you  can  think  of  anything  but  me. 

Ah,  you  remember  praise  and  your  philosophy! 

My  love  shall  be  a  sphere  of  silence  and  of  light, 

Where  Love  is  all  alone  with  love's  delight. — 

Here  is  a  woodcutter  who  is  so  weak 

With  love  of  me,  he  cannot  speak. 

Tell  me,  dumb  man,  am  I  pleasant,  am  I  pleasant? 

Farewell,  philosopher!    I  love  a  peasant. 


SONG  OF  ANASTASIA 

SHALL  I  mock  you,  and  tell  you  that  love  shall  endure, 
Knowing  you  know  the  quality  of  things  that  are  secure? 
Let  love  be  fierce  as  lightning,  and  as  brief 
As  summer-hail,  that  is  a  storm's  relief. 


86 


QUESTION 


IF  I  live  all  my  days  by  routine, 

Keeping  days  ordered  and  ways  clean, 

Will  there  be  room  for  Love  in  my  life? 

Love  who  is  born  in  storm,  and  lives  in  strife. 


THE  CONSCIENCE 

DEADLY  destructive  to  my  man  and  me 

Are  my  rare  fits  of  sore  morality. 

A  mad,  domestic  hell  begins 

When  woman  hides  her  virtues,  and  displays  her  sins. 


SONG  OF  THE  WEAK 

O  PITYING  heart  be  strong! 
Our  load  is  heavy  and  the  road  is  long, 
And  there  is  little  light  to  cheer  our  day 
And  little  kindness  on  the  mourner's  way. 


RELEASE 


I  HAVE  lived  five  years  of  mourning, 
I  live  a  bittered  year  of  scorning. 
Now  of  this  service  is  my  spirit  free, 
Free  of  my  grief,  and  of  antipathy. 
87 


THE  CONTRAST 


I  KNEW  a  chaste  man,  without  pity, 
I  knew  the  veriest  bawd  in  all  this  city. 
And  she  was  very  tender,  very  kind — 
She  was  most  after  God's  mind. 


TATTERDEMALION 

O!    I  will  wear  a  tattered  gown 

And  ash  my  breast  shall  cover, 

For  my  bird  has  gone  to  the  clanging  town, 

To  the  hand  of  my  valiant  lover! 

But  still  myself  shall  sit  and  sing, 

By  the  bed  of  the  old  blind  king. 

O!    If  I  slept  in  bright  array 
And  bound  my  hair  with  beauty, 
I'd  follow  my  bird  to  a  feckless  day 
And  leave  this  dearer  duty. 
In  ash  I'll  sit,  in  rags  I'll  sing, 
By  the  bed  of  the  old  blind  king. 


88 


THE  GHOST 

I  WISH  you'd  a  farm  on  the  hills,  my  Dear, 

And  need  not  work  for  hire. 

For  though  I'm  cold  in  the  churchyard  here, 

And  cannot  sit  by  your  fire, 

I'd  walk  the  paths  of  your  house,  some  nights, 

And  haply  look  into  your  room: 

Then  I'd  always  see  my  Love's  home-lights 

When  I  stood  on  the  rail  of  my  tomb. 


WOMEN  AND  MULTITUDES 

WHEN  a  weak  knave  commanded  me, 

Then  I  was  stung  to  mutiny! 

But  when  my  king  spoke  his  behest, 

In  quick  obedience  I  found  rest. 

Now  to  the  dark  I  cry  my  need, 

"  God  send  us  kings,  to  love,  and  lead." 


THE  WOMAN'S  MIND 

KNOWLEDGE,  to  me,  is  wearisome  from  books, 
I  learn  so  readily  from  words  and  looks. 
Give  me  yourself  as  free  as  air  and  rain. 
I'll  drink,  I'll  think,  and  send  you  flowers  again. 
89 


SELF-ESTEEM 


LOVE  with  a  liquid  ecstasy 

Did  wholly  fill  me  up, 

And  since  his  drink  is  sweet  to  me 

Can  I  despise  his  cup? 


THE  AVENUE 


To  the  tired  traveller  in  summer's  heat, 
The  thought  of  airy  trees  is  sweet. 
Come,  in  my  straight  stretched  arms  discover 
A  leafy  road,  thou  weary  Lover. 


THE  SOLACE 


SINCE  pleasure  is  a  sovereign  cure 
How  can  my  piteous  pain  endure? 
To-night  I  hide  my  face  in  your  dress, 
0  Font  of  Peace!  0  Healing  Tenderness! 


WARNING 


THE  soul  shall  be  drowned  in  the  flood 
Of  mounting  blood. 
Be  strong  at  least 
To  resist  Love, 
Except  at  his  feast. 
90 


ETERNAL  SONGS 

I  AM  a  field  spread  warm  before  the  sun — 

Lord  of  my  day!     Your  love  is  warmth  and  light. 

In  me  all  growth  and  pleasure  are  begun: 

A  bird  soars  singing  to  salute  your  height. 

Love,  my  fond  words, 

Are  happy  birds! 

I  am  the  sun's  self, 

And  you  the  waters  of  a  still  bright  lake; 

My  arms  encircling  airs, 

Which  draw  you,  drink  you,  for  my  sun-ship's  sake. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  THE  HILL 

I  WOULD  be  ever  your  desired, 

Never  the  possessed — 

Nor  in  this  will  of  mine  is  wantonness  expressed. 

The  desired  woman  is  most  dear, 

The  possessed  wanton  is  too  near. 

I  would  be  far  on  unattainable  height — 
Always  for  knowledge,  always  for  sight: 
While  from  your  touch  and  kisses  I  am  free, 
Our  love  is  the  high,  perfect  thing  to  be. 


OASIS 


O  SPRING  of  my  Content, 
The  parching  days  are  spent. 
Where'er  your  feeding  waters  move 
There  is  the  sweet  increase  of  love. 

I,  wanderer  in  a  wilderness 

Starved  of  all  hope  and  comfortless, 

Now  lay  me  down  in  groves  of  cool  delight 

Which  you  have  nurtured,  in  a  charmed  night. 


THE  MEETING 


WHEN  I  saw  you,  you  went  to  my  head, 

You  were  like  wine  to  my  brain, 

I  walked  in  London  through  the  rain, 

To  see  a  man  who  had  been  ten  years  dead. 

For  pleasure  I  forgot  the  years, 

Old  time,  old  death,  old  tears. 


THE  LITTLE  LANGUAGE 

WHEN  I  am  near  you,  I  am  like  a  child, 
I'm  still  and  simple,  I  am  undefiled. 
I  speak  my  love  in  a  forgotten  tongue, 
And  use  the  words  I  knew  when  I  was  young. 
My  Love!    You  have  restored  me  in  a  hundred  ways, 
You  gave  me  back  my  happy  childish  days. 
92 


VANITY 

I  SAW  old  Duchesses  with  their  young  Loves, 

I,  in  a  pair  of  very  shabby  gloves; 

Even  my  shapeless  garments  could  not  make  me  sad, 

For  I  remembered  I  was  young  as  you,  dear  Lad. 

That  I  am  lovelier  without  my  dress, 

Gave  me  sweet  wanton  happiness. 


THE  WALK  IN  THE  WOODS 

HIGH  Heaven  is  insecure. 

Give  me  my  paradise  while  these  warm  arms  endure. 
Come,  my  Love!  let  us  walk  in  this  brake. 
Where  I  can  see  you  sleep,  and  watch  you  wake. 
So  much  of  pleasure,  for  Mortality's  poor  sake. 


INVOCATION 

COME  down,  thou  friendly  Night! 
Drive  out  this  traitor  Light, 
Who  will  reveal  my  silent  way! 
And  Darkness  give  me  cover, 
That  I  may  find  my  Lover, 
After  the  fevered  day! 


93 


IRRESOLUTE  LOVER 

I  SAID,  "  I  will  not  go  to  her  to-night," 
When  I  had  courage  from  the  prudent  light. 
My  resolution  vanished  with  the  day, 
When  the  dark  came  I  could  not  live  away. 
O!    My  dear  Love,  let  down  your  hair, 
Make  me  a  tent,  and  let  me  shelter  there; 
That  in  the  darkness  of  a  screened  night 
I  live  more  prudent  than  in  loveless  light. 


A  MAN  IN  LOVE 

I  WISH  no  more  that  beauty  walked  in  light, 
Utterly  naked  to  the  daily  sight. 
O  rather  let  some  simple  dress 
Shelter  my  Woman's  loveliness. 
So  is  her  beauty  love's  high  prize, 
Which  I  discover  with  adoring  eyes. 


THE  SILENCE 

WHEN  I  meet  you,  I  greet  you  with  a  stare; 
Like  a  poor  shy  child  at  a  fair. 
I  will  not  let  you  love  me — yet  am  I  weak. 
I  love  you  so  intensely  that  I  cannot  speak. 
When  you  are  gone,  I  stand  apart, 
And  whisper  to  your  image  in  my  heart. 
94 


FEAR 


Now  by  your  love  am  I  restored, 
But  ask  me  not  for  love's  reward. 
I  am  full  of  love  as  is  a  cloud 
Pregnant  with  thunders  long  and  loud. 
I  tremble,  for  in  this  wild  sky 
Are  lightnings,  by  which  man  may  die! 


THE  FLIGHT 


I  FEAR  your  sight, 

0  Lover! 

1  make  the  night 
My  cover, 

I  know  your  touch  a  dreaded  thing; 

I  go  to  sombre  woods  to  sing; 

Where  you  are  not  is  such  a  sick  distress 

That  I  must  sing  a  lover's  loneliness! 

But  if  my  songs  shall  lead  you  where  I  hide, 

Then  have  I  silence,  now  so  long  denied. 


95 


SLAVE  OF  THE  FIRE 

I  AM  weary  of  my  service  to  the  blood  of  a  king, 

For  my  people  were  farmers  out  of  the  West, 

I  would  be  wife  to  this  yeoman  of  whom  my  heart  sings, 

In  his  strong  love,  I  would  take  my  rest. 

O!    That  I  might  raise  a  man  to  my  kind, 

Shelter  him  in  my  womb,  and  feed  him  with  my  mind. 

THE  SUPREME  COURTESY 

MY  man  is  like  a  good  steel  blade, 

As  subtle,  strong,  and  finely  made, 

His  power  blue-white 

As  steely  light. 

O,  he  is  cruel-quick  enough! 

But  to  my  touch,  as  pleasant  as  fine  stuff, 

And  from  a  wound  of  him  I'd  die, 

Happy  at  such  keen  mastery. 

THE  FAREWELL 

TO-NIGHT 
For  the  last  time, 

I  loose  my  hair  to  make  a  tent  about  you. 
Come,  lay  your  head  on  my  knees. 
Your  eyes  are  the  lights  of  a  town, 
And  my  body  is  a  sheltering  hill. 
Now  my  hair  is  a  cloud, 
To  hide  you  from  the  inquisitive  stars. 
96 


REGRET 


AFTER  a  grey  day's  forgetting 
Was  the  red  of  this  sun's  setting, 
And  the  ache  of  my  regretting. 

To-night  my  bed  is  a  rack, 

I  die  painful  for  love's  lack  .   .   . 

0!  My  Beloved,  come  back!  come  back! 


SURRENDER 


WHEN  you  kiss  me  I  am  blind, 

My  senses 

Are  filled  with  ecstasy. 

I  only  feel  how  strong  my  life  is, 

And  so  know  myself. 

From  love  I  understand  all  things  that  live, 

And  even  the  dead. 

I  am  like  a  tree 

Shaken  in  wind. 

Or  like  water  that  is  drawn  into  the  air 

Through  the  strong  loving  of  the  sun. 

When  you  are  gone, 

I  am  myself  earthquake  and  eclipse, 

And  all  cold  darkness,  and  rending  grief. 

When  you  kiss  me  I  am  blind. 

I  am  blind! 

97 


THE  MILL 

I  HID  beneath  the  covers  of  the  bed, 

And  dreamed  my  eyes  were  lovers, 

On  a  hill  that  was  my  head. 

They  looked  upon  the  loveliest  country  I  have  seen, 

Great  fields  of  red-brown  earth  hedged  round  with  green. 

In  these  enclosures  I  could  see 

The  high  perfection  of  fertility, 

I  knew  there  were  sweet  waters  near  to  feed  the  land, 

I  heard  the  churning  of  a  mill  on  my  right  hand, 

I  woke  to  breathlessness  with  a  quick  start, 

And  found  my  mill  the  beating  of  your  heart. 


THE  CUP 

I  DREAMED  that  all  your  being  was  a  cup, 

Shaped  like  the  hands  of  an  adoring  priest. 

I  dreamed  that  loving  had  transposed  my  blood  to  wine. 

I  scented  the  wine  with  my  low-whispered  songs, 

So  the  red  liquor  was  Love's  self — 

Then  with  an  ecstasy  I  spilled  myself  into  the  cup. 

My  soul  was  driven  from  my  body 

And  waited  watching,  like  pearl-coloured  flame; 

That  flame  was  prayer, 

I  prayed  you  might  contain  me. 

If  the  arching  fulness  of  the  cup  be  broken, 
If  Love  shall  overflow  the  cup 
And  fall  like  blood  from  a  wound, 
Then  shall  my  soul's  light  die. 

O,  Man,  contain  me! 


SUNG  OF  CLARISSA 

WHY  is  there  healing  in  her  love? 
Her  mind  is  clear  as  streams  that  flow 
Down  rock-steps  to  a  vale  below, 
Bearing  on  spray  the  Sun's  bright  bow, 
And  singing  as  they  move. 
99 


WANDER  SONG 

WHEN  I  come  to  the  end  of  the  land, 
I  find  the  sea, 

With  edges  of  cliff  and  breadths  of  sand 
To  pleasure  me. 

When  I  raise  my  town-tired  eyes 
There  is  blue  and  white, 
Or  kings  and  castles  of  stormy  skies, 
Or  joy  of  night. 

When  I  weary  of  all  I  see 
And  tire  even  of  space, 
I  hold  your  love  in  memory, 
And  your  dear  face. 

THE  THIEF 

I  SAID  in  pride,  "  To  love's  my  need; 
I  will  not  have  him  loving  me, 
I'd  walk  unhobbled,  and  indeed 
What  woman  loved  was  ever  free!  " 

So  for  a  man,  I  loved  a  ghost, 
And  knew  chill  rapture  in  the  walks  of  thought, 
But  when  I  needed  pleasure  most, 
Imagination  gave  me  naught. 

O!     Had  I  given  what  I  fought  to  take 
I  had  not  wept  for  this  cold  hunger's  sake! 
100 


REVELATION 


"  LOVE  has  no  shame." — 

'Twas  this  you  said  to  me. 

Shall  Love  reveal 

Hid  beauties  that  are  real 

And  still  disguise  the  soul's  infirmity 

In  fear  of  blame? 

"  Love  has  no  cruelty." — 

See  first  the  wounds  that  are  within 

Hid  by  this  quite  sufficient  skin. 

Loving  your  spirit,  I  may  not  deceive  it. 

Then  of  my  body,  Lover — take  or  leave  it. 


SEA  TO  THE  WANING  MOON 

O  THOU  compassionate  queen  of  night! 
With  what  a  kind  inconsistency 
Thou  wan'st  upon  my  hopeless  sight 
To  leave  me  with  a  memory! 

What  spite  to  me  who  cannot  climb, 
To  see  you  ever  at  night's  prime, 
Compelling  with  sweet  silent  speech, 
Ever  desirous,  ever  out  of  reach! 


101 


TRANSMUTATION 

THERE  is  happiness  for  me, 
In  sight  of  a  great  sun-warmed  tree. 
I  pray  that  roots  may  touch  my  head, 
When  I  am  dead. 

Maybe  there  is  some  splendid  rhythm  in  confusion, 
And  there  is  hope  in  dissolution. 
I  should  have  little  fear  of  ugly  changes,  little  grief, 
If  the  material  of  my  thought  were  quick  transmuted  to 
a  leaf. 

A  HOUSE  IN  HAMPSTEAD 

MY  house  is  damp  as  damp  can  be, 

It  stands  on  London  clay. 

And  if  I  move  unthinkingly 

It  shakes  in  a  most  alarming  way, 

Mayhap  it  will  all  come  down  on  me 

One  day. 

But  through  the  window  I  can  see 
The  most  enchanting  apple-tree. 
In  spring-time,  there  are  daffodils 
And  primroses  on  little  hills, 
And  high  within  my  apple-tree 
A  blackbird  comes  and  sings  to  me; 
On  the  black  branch  he  sits  and  sings 
Of  birds  and  nests  and  eggs  and  things. 
I  can't  remember,  as  I  hear, 
That  old  grey  London  lies  so  near. 
102 


THE  AWAKENING 

THERE  is  a  veteran  tree, 

With  green-stained  bark, 

Rising  like  a  tower  of  the  sea, 

From  the  smooth  park. 

He  is  a  giant  among  trees, 

And  he  has  watched  this  house  for  centuries. 

His  bark  is  hard  as  rock, 

Time  and  Sun  and  the  Wind's  shock 

Have  twisted  his  boughs  till  they  are  like  the  arms  of  a 

great  carven  figure  of  Care, 
Flung  in  passionate  appeal  to  the  changing  humour  of 

the  Air. 

Now  on  high  branches  sticky  buds  appear, 
Promise  of  growth  and  beauty  for  the  year. — 
It  seems  my  life  is  an  old  tree, 
And  the  young  buds  are  your  sweet  love  for  me. 


THE  TRESPASSER 

THERE  is  a  little  goblin  in  my  tree, 

He  sits  up  high  and  mows  at  me. 

He  is  so  wicked,  yet  so  small, 

He  makes  my  garden  venturous,  and  my  trees  tall. 


103 


CONCERNING  CERTAIN  CRITICISM 

THERE  is  no  pleasure  in  hard  names  for  flowers, 
Nor  in  acquaintance  with  their  inner  shape. 
To  ravish  Beauty  with  dividing  powers 
Is  to  let  exquisite  essences  escape. 
At  feasts  within  a  flowery  paradise 
Parvenu  Wit  must  yield  his  precedence, 
Honours  therein  are  for  the  nose  and  eyes, 
For  that  old  Exquisite,  discerning  Sense. 


THE  EXPLAINERS 

THEY  have  taken  the  street 

From  underneath  my  feet, 

Now  the  great  roads  appear 

Unmeaning  scratches  on  a  sphere. 

They  have  given  every  star  its  place, 

They  have  made  a  wearying  diagram  of  what  was  bound- 
less space, 

Long  ago  they  stole  fairies  from  the  trees, 

They  took  naiads  from  the  rivers,  and  mermen  from  the 
seas. 

I  wish  that  I  could  tremble  now 

In  fear  of  a  small  devil  curled  upon  that  bough. 

In  these  imaginings  I  should  find 

Relief  from  the  strained  stillness,  that  is  my  mind. 

104 


FAITH 


I  KEEP  a  bird  in  my  heart, 

He  lives  on  sorrow, 

His  name  is  Faith. 

He  is  so  quick  a  conjurer  that  he  can  borrow 

Flesh  from  a  wraith. 

He  swallows  the  harsh  weeds  of  pain 
And  gives  me  scope, 
To  tend  my  little  garden-plot  again 
And  wait  for  Hope. 


INSENSIBILITY 


WHY  should  I  weep  for  Autumn  rain? 
Give  gusty  Winter  toll  of  tears? 
I  know  that  Spring  will  come  again, 
As  in  the  other  years. 

And  there  is  pleasure  in  wet  ways, 
In  frozen  fields,  and  mist-strange  days; 
What  were  eternal  Spring  to  me, 
Whose  joy  is  in  diversity! 


105 


CONCERNING  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  MR.  H— 

THIS  gentleman  will  only  talk  to  us  of  dogs 
Because  he  wishes  to  disguise  that  he's  a  poet, — 
If  he  should  mention  lions,  dolphins,  frogs, 
He  thinks,  by  misadventure,  we  should  know  it! 

He  tells  us  things  of  white  dogs,  and  of  brown, 
Of  curious  breeds  with  one  distinctive  spot, 
Of  all  the  dogs  that  ever  walked  this  town, 
Of  dogs  of  his  acquaintance  that  have  not. 

I  cite  a  dog  I  once  set  eyes  upon 
Which,  lacking  doggy  lore,  I  say  looked  like  a  swan; 
He  takes  me,  says,  "  That  hound  was  bred  in  Russia, 
Three  such  are  owned  by  Henry,  Prince  of  Prussia." 

0,  modest  violet!  cowering  in  your  green 
Your  scent  betrays  you  though  you  are  not  seen! 
Only  unveterinary  wights,  like  you  and  me, 
Would  see  in  dogs  a  swanny  quality! 


1 06 


THE  PASSER 


I  LOVE  the  stone  of  your  threshold, 

I  love  the  path  without  it, 

I  love  the  briar  in  its  borders, 

With  the  brave  young  plants  about  it. 

There  is  pleasure  in  sight  of  your  windows, 

And  passing,  in  decorous  night, 

I  smile  my  love  to  your  window 

And  bow  my  love  to  your  light. 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  DEBTOR 

LADY,  when  I  recall  indebtedness 

To  you  who  hid  me  from  my  bitter  day, 

And  with  kind  craft  bewitched  my  griefs  away 

I  would  not  have  my  owing  to  you  less! 

Untimely  night  has  fallen  between  us  two. 
Mine  were  the  blackness  of  a  dumb  regret 
But  for  the  dear  relation  of  this  debt, 
Which  still  unites  my  destiny  to  you. 

Thus  in  my  cold  a  little  cheer  is  found, 
The  fullest  debt  will  hold  me  fastest  bound. 
Here's  coin  for  quittance,  yet  I  will  withhold 
Return  in  any  service,  faith  or  gold. 
And  since  your  due  is  doubly  dear  to  me, 
I  will  not  even  give  you  courtesy! 
107 


THE  BARGAINER 

THE  clownish  reveller  is  driven  hence. 
I  meet  no  night  with  frenzied  amorous  waste 
Nor  drug  my  noon  with  self-deceiving  haste, 
This  to  your  light,  my  reasoned  reverence. 

Now  since  I  love,  I  am  content  with  Time. 
I  scorn  that  impotent  mad  will  to  cause; 
Trusting  the  gradual  action  of  old  laws, 
To  round  my  life,  and  to  mature  my  rhyme. 

0!    You,  who  are  the  worker  of  this  change, 
Respect  in  me  the  measure  of  your  power, 
Hold  to  a  steady  godhead,  lest  I  range 
From  growing  symmetry  of  this  new  hour! 
If  Chaos  wake  from  shattered  Harmony, 
Yours  be  the  shame  of  half  divinity. 


108 


TO  ANITA  THE  GARDENER 

IN  summer  when  my  life  was  cold, 
Frozen  too  weary  for  desire, 
I  warmed  my  heart  at  your  marigold, 
As  at  a  fire. 

It  was  the  first  flower  from  your  new  ground, 
The  first  gold  largess  from  the  care 
And  loving,  you  had  planted  there, 
And  in  the  walks  around. 

I  stole  your  garden's  coin  to  buy  content, 
A  vision  of  black  earth  dug  deep  for  flowers. 
Through  sunny  self-forgetful  hours, 
With  joys,  God  meant. 

In  summer  when  my  life  was  cold, 
Frozen  too  weary  for  desire, 
I  warmed  my  heart  at  your  marigold, 
As  at  a  fire. 

THE  CALL 

WALK  out,  my  Love,  from  little  houses, 

From  these  dim  walls  of  old  restraints, 

Heavy  with  odorous  griefs  and  melancholy  plaints, 

Cobwebbed  with  sighs. 

Let  us  find  a  field  where  a  quiet  cow  browses, 

A  field  wind-swept  to  clean  content, 

And  we  will  love  there  as  God  meant, 

Under  free  skies. 

109 


VERITY 


WHAT  do  these  outpoured  lovings  prove 

But  the  long  ache  to  love! 

O  Fate!     You  are  not  kind, 

To  fill  this  chasm  with  cold  wind. 

When  had  a  woman  wealth  from  dreaming, 

Or  any  solace  from  love's  seeming? 

Let  it  be  said,  that  these  are  dexterous  feignings, 

Well  stated  heats,  ingenious  complainings. 

And  yet  with  loathing  is  my  silence  broken, 

Had  they  been  true,  they  never  had  been  spoken. 

What  fuller  happiness  were  it  for  me, 

To  leave  a  mummer's  rages 

To  fill  a  footnote  in  my  Love's  biography, 

And  not  these  loving  pages. 


no 


EPICUREAN  LOVER 

DEAR!  I  will  love  you,  though  you  love  me  not! 
Contempts  will  never  shake  my  mind! 
Misuse  and  scorn  and  silence  move  me  not! 
But  I  beseech  you,  be  not  kind. 
Since  loving  me,  you  would  approach  me, 
O,  let  your  distance  still  reproach  me! 

For  things  remembered  may  be  sweet, 

As  things  imagined,  and  for  me 

A  wearying  rhythm  of  due  feet 

Were  less  esteemed  than  your  apostasy. 

Then,  O  my  Love!    Live  still  beyond  my  reach, 

Leave  me  my  dream  of  your  dear  look  and  speech. 


in 


THE  POET'S  CHANGE  OF  MIND 

WHO  prizes  fruit  and  scorns  the  tree? 
Yet  this  fair  Critic  says  of  me, 
I  love  the  work,  but  hate  the  man! 
Show  charier  charity  who  can! 

My  Lady,  I  was  ever  loth 

To  wait  inactive  to  be  loved, 

I  found  in  insult,  whips  from  cloth, 

When  I  was  stung  I  moved. 

But  there  is  justice  for  whose  sake 

A  sleepy  dignity  will  wake. 

If  of  my  book  you  prize  a  part, 

Honour  a  hand,  deal  fairly  with  a  heart. 

The  thing  you  love  is  very  me, 

Come,  eat  the  fruit,  but  love  the  tree! 

DIFFIDENCE 

0  TIME  has  a  kiss 
For  every  Miss 
And  a  bed  for  every  Trull! 
But  thou,  my  Dearie, 
O!  Come  not  near  me, 
Our  love  is  a  wheeling  gull. 
Lovely  he  flies  'twixt  sea  and  skies, 
He's  a  silly  bird  on  land. 
No  wrath  of  black  weathers 
Will  ruffle  his  feathers 
Like  the  touch  of  a  capturing  hand. 
112 


TO  "  NUCLEUS  " 


'Tis  you  who  hold 

My  heat,  my  cold, 

My  rigour  and  my  ecstasy. 

Control  my  days, 

Compel  my  ways 

To  action  or  to  lethargy. 

You  fill  my  nights 

With  keen  delights 

Of  a  stupendous  dreaming. 

0!  Little  Seed, 

Who  at  my  need 

Flowers  to  such  splendid  seeming! 


ABSOLUTE 


I,  YOUR  true  lover, 

Demand  neither  words  nor  your  silence. 

My  heart  can  discover 

Delight  in  transport  or  in  continence. 

My  faith  is  zenith,  earth,  and  air, 
Ever  beneath,  about,  above, 
And  when  you  wander  I  am  there, 
So  changing-constant — since  I  love. 


THE  FALLOW 


Now,  Tiller,  hold  your  grain, 

Leave  her  to  sun  and  rain 

And  the  kind  air. 

Then  trench  her  with  a  well-judged  measure 

Of  feeding  pleasure, 

And  give  her  peace 

To  dream  of  her  increase 

And  your  good  care. 

Well  might  you  reap  miraculous  yield 

From  such  a  happy,  nourished  field ! 


THE  RETURN 


SHE  gave  me  tears, 
A  rain  to  wash  the  dust  of  years, 
A  silence  for  disharmony, 
For  jagged  wounds  a  remedy, 
Green  windy  down  for  foetid  towns, 
For  slums  sweet-scented  closes, 
And  for  the  thorn  of  her  blest  scorn 
I  gave  her  thorny  roses. 


114 


THE  WINDED  HORN 

AH!  my  good  Wizard  she  shall  not  escape, 

Though  the  soul  leave  her  house  in  a  magical  shape, 

Be  it  asp,  toad  or  lizard,  or  tiger  or  ape, 

Sure  I  will  find  her,  secure  I  will  bind  her, 

Wherever  she  fly,  in  whatever  disguise. 

I  am  Love  the  hunter,  all-swift  and  all-wise, 

A  torch  is  my  hand  and  spears  are  my  eyes. 


THE  LITTLE  ROOM 

I  AM  my  Love's  laboratory, 
For  truly  he  shall  find 
The  proof  of  his  high  quality 
Within  my  heart  and  mind. 
Look  down,  my  Love,  my  Dear, 
At  the  sure  change  wrought  here! 


THE  ECONOMIST 

IT  must  be  true  I  love  you  well 
Since  your  light  words  are  whips  of  Hell. 
But  who  has  pain  has  songs  to  sell. 
My  profitable  Friends,  farewell! 


INCONSTANCY 

TIME  was,  when  I  recalled  your  words,  your  looks,  your 

deeds, 

As  a  rapt  nun  counts  over  her  blest  beads; 
Then  was  my  mind  so  filled  with  memory 
Love  had  no  room  to  work  his  change  in  me, 
And  I  was  faithless  from  my  faith's  continuance, 
Since  being  changeless  I  gave  no  obedience. 

I  have  forgotten  you,  for  these  long  days, 
All  unsustained  by  you  I  went  my  ways, 
Now  at  the  end  I  take  you  back  to  thought 
To  find  my  action  was  the  thing  you  taught. 
And  so  in  faithlessness  is  faith's  continuance, 
Since  in  a  change  I  do  you  all  obedience. 


SONG 

NOT  for  an  hour  shall  your  dear  thought  escape  me. 

I  keep  it  fast  to  cheer,  to  guide,  to  shape  me. 

As  an  old  pilot  held  in  sight  a  star, 

As  a  wrecked  man  clings  frantic  to  a  spar, 

So  I  maintain  your  love  in  memory, 

My  hope  of  haven,  my  security. 


116 


THE  POET 

HERE  is  he,  at  this  moment,  which  is  Time's  end, 
Lonely  as  he  was  born,  without  a  friend. 
And  he  has  called  the  hungry  to  his  door, 
And  he  has  shared  his  bounty  with  the  poor. 
He  has  been  feasted,  he  has  been  desired. 
Lovers  have  drunk  of  him,  till  they  were  tired. 
All  men  have  ate  his  councils  and  passed  by, 
Thankless, — as  who  shall  thank  the  sky. 


FOR  PITY 


MEN  are  brought  low  by  blame, 
So  that  they  live  with  shame. 
Kindness  and  love  and  praise 
Are  strong  to  heal  and  raise. 


PRAYER  FOR  MIRACLE 

O  GOD!    No  more  Thy  miracle  withhold, 
To  us  in  tents  give  palaces  of  gold, 
And  while  we  stumble  among  things  that  are 
Give  us  the  solace  of  a  guiding  star! 


117 


DE  PROFUNDIS 


How  shall  I  bring  this  beast  into  subjection 
But  by  the  hope  and  knowledge  of  perfection? 
Must  I  avoid  all  paths  my  Race  has  trod? 
Shall  I  not  call  my  vast  upholder  God? 


THE  TORTURE 


GOD  has  raised  his  whip  of  Hell 
That  you  be  no  longer  weak. 
Because  of  anguish  shall  you  speak, 
Because  of  anguish,  shall  you  speak  well. 


SANCTUARY 


HE  who  thinks  a  perfect  melody, 
Lives,  for  that  time  in  harmony, 
Walks  for  that  time  in  liberty, 
Loves  for  that  time  in  purity. 


IMMORTALITY 


THE  Singer  sang  through  all  his  years, 
But  thrifty  Honour  saved  his  tears, 
And  for  his  piteous  toil, 
Blessed  him  with  weeping,  as  with  Holy  Oil. 
1x8 


THE  BUILDERS 

A  MAN  can  build  a  bridge  of  wood  and  stone; 
Exterior  forces  his  trained  powers  control; 
But  the  material  of  the  Singer  is  his  own, 
He  cuts  his  songs  from  the  raw  texture  of  his  soul. 


QUEST 

WHERE  is  the  miracle?    In  Future  and  in  Past, 
Not  in  the  Present,  which  must  ever  last. 
The  Young  and  the  weak  Old  must  live  dream-fed 
On  gods  to  be,  and  on  the  holy  Dead. 


THE  SONG  OF  PRIDE 

WE  are  unwilling  to  lie  low, 
Crushed  by  a  cursed  tyrant  "  No." 
Give  us  a  fight  where  we  can  cry,  "  I  can!  " 
To  show  there  is  the  seed  of  God  in  man. 
If  God  shall  strike  us  for  our  pride 
Know  that  in  joy  of  death  we  died. 


119 


MY  LADY  SURRENDERS 

How  did  she  abdicate? 

Was  it  with  soft  sighs 

And  pretty  feignings  of  a  lover's  state, 

Or  was  it  solemn-wise, 

With  altar  offerings  and  rapt  vows? 

O  no!  when  Love  himself  was  there, 

Most  housewifely  she  bound  her  hair 

And  went  off  across  the  field  to  milk  the  cows. 


COUNSEL  OF  ARROGANCE 

IF  I  were  God,  I  would  find  equal  treasure, 
In  human  work,  in  courage,  and  in  pleasure. 
And  I  would  whisper  to  the  captive  soul, 
That  all  these  things  should  be  in  sweet  control. 
That  man  should  be  from  birth-bed  to  the  grave, 
Not  always  busy,  not  always  brave. 
That  he  should  gather  me  the  flower  of  idleness, 
And  the  seed-holding  cup  of  perfect  happiness. 


120 


PRAYER  ON  SUNDAY 


GOD  send  a  higher  courage 
For  to  cut  straight  and  clean! 
God  send  a  juster  language, 
To  state  the  thing  I  mean! 
Here  is  such  random  thinking, 
Such  sloth,  such  slime,  such  fog, 
I  see  an  old  cow  sinking 
Deep,  in  a  pitchy  bog! 


EFFECT  OF  GIFTS  ON  A  RECIPIENT 

WHEN  the  ape  and  the  wolf  bared  fangs  to  eat 

A  silly  dish  of  praise, 

The  drowsing  master  snatched  the  meat 

Which  mocked  his  faithless  days. 

He  grasped  the  beasts  by  a  hanging  chain 

And  stood  in  his  house,  a  lord  again. 

Then  out  he  went  through  a  feeble  morn 

With  the  drunken  sleep  in  his  eyes, 

He  begged  affront,  he  craved  for  scorn, 

In  mendicant's  disguise. 

And  of  these  gifts  divinely  given, 

His  faith  in  life,  his  hope  of  Heaven. 


121 


SUNG  TO  THE  SOCIAL  REFORMER 

LEAVE  us  our  sorrows, 
Take  not  our  tears, 
For  long  to-morrows 
Of  too  perfect  years. 

To  the  New-born  can  you  deny 
The  world-old  solace  of  a  cry; 
Or  to  hot  Youth  the  eternal  right 
To  win  his  having  with  a  fight? 

Leave  us  our  sorrows, 
Take  not  our  tears, 
For  long  to-morrows 
Of  too  perfect  years. 


122 


THE  JOURNEY 

I  HAVE  seen  the  harlot  decked  for  death, 

I  have  seen  the  fruitful  woman  scorned  for  ugliness. 

I  will  not  embrace  Beauty  but  Order, 

Scorning  this  body  which  must  grow  old. 

I  have  heard  the  loveless  laughter  of  fools, 

I  have  seen  the  wanton  and  the  pander  drunk  with  mirth. 

Laughter  is  a  sacrament  which  should  be  shared  for 

Love's  sake. 
Let  us  then  be  merry  when  mirth  is  no  sacrilege. 

I  have  seen  the  eyes  of  a  smirched  man  turn  from  his 
paramour's  lapdog 

To  find  refreshment  in  a  child's  look. 

So  for  a  moment  were  his  banned  eyes  filled  with  heav- 
enly light. 

Who,  seeing  this,  can  still  boast  sterile  loves? 


THE  VIPER 

I  HEARD  a  pander  say  in  scorn  of  a  bawd, 
"  A  child  should  be  her  reward." 
O  rotten  speech! 
Whose  filthiness  should  teach 
That  man  shall  find 

Reward  for  his  lewd  living,  in  his  mind. 
123 


DOOM 

YE  Slothful! 

The  hour  of  dread  is  upon  you 

When  the  perfect  thing  shall  be  accomplished. 

The  defiler  of  law 

May  meet  God  down  avenues  of  hot  sin. 

You — performers  of  nothing, 

Who  weave  your  little  mats  in  damp  valleys, 

What  use  had  mighty  God,  or  a  strong  devil,  for  your 

shrunk  souls? 
There  is  black  Hell  or  clear  Heaven  for  the  souls  of  the 

Willers; 
Surely  there  is  an  eternal  scrap-heap  for  the  souls  of  the 

Slothful! 

For  the  rejected  of  Heaven, 
For  the  throw-outs  of  any  incontemptible  Hell. 


OUTLAW 

SUPPRESSION  is  the  duty  of  a  slave, 
Expression  is  morality  for  the  brave. 
If  you  are  born  a  king, 
Fight,  love,  and  sing! 
But  he  who  walks  alone  in  liberty 
Must  face  the  hordes  of  massed  humility. 
Now,  as  of  old,  a  leader  risks  his  head — 
A  coward  dies  an  inch  a  day,  a  hero  is  quick  dead. 
124 


THE  FRESH  START 

O  GIVE  me  back  my  rigorous  English  Sunday 

And  my  well-ordered  house,  with  stockings  washed  on 

Monday. 

Let  the  House-Lord,  that  kindly  decorous  fellow, 
Leave  happy  for  his  Law  at  ten,  with  a  well-furled  um- 
brella. 

Let  my  young  sons  observe  my  strict  house  rules, 
Imbibing  Tory  principles,  at  Tory  schools. 

Two  years  now  I  have  sat  beneath  a  curse 
And  in  a  fury  poured  out  frenzied  verse, 
Such  verse  as  held  no  beauty  and  no  good 
And  was  at  best  new  curious  vermin-food. 

My  dog  is  rabid,  and  my  cat  is  lean, 

And  not  a  pot  in  all  this  place  is  clean. 

The  locks  have  fallen  from  my  hingeless  doors, 

And  holes  are  in  my  credit  and  my  floors. 

There  is  no  solace  for  me,  but  in  sooth 

To  have  said  baldly  certain  ugly  truth. 

Such  scavenger's  work  was  never  yet  a  woman's, 

My  wardrobe's  more  a  scarecrow's  than  a  human's. 

I'm  off  to  the  House-goddess  for  her  gift. 
"  O  give  me  Circumspection,  Temperance,  Thrift; 
Take  thou  this  lust  of  words,  this  fevered  itching, 
And  give  me  faith  in  darning,  joy  of  stitching!  " 

125 


When  this  hot  blood  is  cooled  by  kindly  Time 
Controlled  and  schooled,  I'll  come  again  to  Rhyme. 
Sure  of  my  methods,  morals  and  my  gloves, 
I'll  write  chaste  sonnets  of  imagined  Loves. 


DOMESTIC  ECONOMY 

I  WILL  have  few  cooking-pots, 

They  shall  be  bright, 

They  shall  reflect  to  blinding 

God's  straight  light. 

I  will  have  four  garments, 

They  shall  be  clean, 

My  service  shall  be  good, 

Though  my  diet  be  mean. 

Then  I  shall  have  excess  to  give  the  poor, 

And  right  to  counsel  beggars  at  my  door. 


126 


THE  MOCKER 


No  longer  will  I  upbraid, 

But  go  my  way  in  silence! 

From  shame,  I  am  afraid 

And  brought  to  my  soul's  continence! 

I  saw  a  man  bowed  'neath  a  Dream, 
Go  painful,  to  ransom  a  city — 
'Tis  such  alone  will  redeem, 
And  yet  I  withheld  from  him  pity. 

But  as  a  mocker  I  spoke, 

"  Good  Ox,  graze  here,  by  the  road, 

'Tis  an  ignominious  yoke 

When  dust  is  the  load!  " 

And  I  saw  in  a  ransomer's  eyes 
Ire,  for  God's  purpose  defamed. 
God  give  me  the  gag  of  the  wise — 
I  am  shamed! 


127 


A  SONG  OF  WOMEN 

WHEN  Kings  knelt  to  a  Maid  and  a  Child, 
In  a  poor  place  that  kings  could  scorn, 
Was  Might  exalted  in  a  Maid? 
Or  stark  Strength  praised  in  the  New-born? 

Then  was  a  babe  known  as  Earth's  Lord, 
And  a  maid's  arm  was  God's  strong  shield, 
How  long  shall  this  Woman  wait  her  reward, 
The  honour  that  her  love  should  yield? 

Upraised  in  Churches  shrined  in  Art, 
Ages  have  seen  a  Girl  and  Child. 
But  fullest  honour  is  for  days, 
When  Life  and  Faith  are  reconciled. 

When  Love  is  counted  strong  as  Strength, 
And  all  the  tongues  of  service  speak, 
When  you  in  council  hear  at  length 
The  guardians  of  your  mighty  weak. 

What  splendid  empire  can  you  build? 
What  destiny  in  pride  and  lands, 
That  is  not  by  our  babes  fulfilled 
That  is  not  in  your  woman's  hands. 

Now  we,  the  guardians  of  your  Race, 
Strong  to  fulfill  your  mighty  task, 
Ask  in  your  Councils  for  our  place, 
And  you  will  give  us  what  we  ask. 
128 


When  Kings  knelt  to  a  Maid  and  a  Child, 
In  a  poor  place  that  kings  might  scorn, 
Then  was  our  pleading  justified, 
By  that  strong  Mother  and  her  New-born. 


THE  FOUNDLING 

THERE  is  a  little  naked  child  at  the  door, 
His  name  is  Beauty,  and  he  cries, 
"  Behold,  I  am  born,  put  me  where  I  can  live." 
The  old  World  comes  to  the  door, 
And  thrusting  out  a  lip,  says  only  this, 
"  It  is  true  that  you  are  born,  but  how  were  you  con- 
ceived? " 

< 
There  is  an  owl  upon  an  elder-tree, 

Who  opening  an  eye,  says  only  this. 

"That  is  a  lovely  child!  " 

The  old  World  said  again, 

"  Yes!  but  how  was  he  conceived?  " 

There  is  a  gust  of  free  wind, 
And  high  cloud  voices  call. 
"  What  can  you  ask  of  Love  but  conception? 
Men  are  born  of  blest  love, 
Of  evil  love  is  death. 

There  is  but  one  pure  love,  the  love  of  Child, 
And  that  is  sweet  as  a  pine  forest,  clean  as  the  sea: 
Old  World  take  all  your  children  in." 

129 


THE  TOWN  DIRGE 

A  CHILD  was  dead  in  the  town, 

Son  of  a  sick  woman  and  a  poor  man. 

The  woman  being  sick  gave  only  her  love, 

And  what  can  the  poor  man  give! 

A  child  was  dead  in  the  town. 

In  the  house  of  our  pity 

The  woman  kept  for  her  child. 

But  we,  being  wise,  whispered  apart, 

"  Seeing  that  the  man  is  poor,  and  the  woman  sick, 

It  is  well  that  the  child  is  dead." 

She,  of  her  courtesy,  asked  us  to  look  at  her  child, 

But  I  could  not  enter  the  poor  room, 

I  could  not  face  its  Dead. 

My  heart  accused  my  lips  and  cried, 

"No  child  should  die." 

O,  you!    Who  are  strong  in  the  town, 
Mighty  to  build,  mighty  to  shield  the  weak, 
Join  with  us  that  we  may  say, 
Under  God's  grace,  and  of  our  good  care, 
No  child  shall  die. 


130 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CHILD 

RECEIVE  me  again,  Father  God, 

There  is  no  room! 

There  is  war  upon  earth,  men  fight, 

They  have  no  time,  no  food,  no  pity  for  babes. 

The  women  staunch  men's  wounds,  and  forget  us. 

Mothers  with  child  are  starved. 

The  new-born  dies  at  the  empty  breast; 

So  I  died  who  was  your  messenger. 

I  have  made  no  beauty,  I  have  spoken  no  truth, 

I  have  failed,  I  was  rejected,  born  too  soon. 

Receive  me  again!    Father  God!    Receive  me! 


THEFT 

WHEN  first  I  saw  the  old  man  dead, 

I  laid  a  curious  hand  upon  his  head, 

To  steal  that  little  left  in  the  soul's  mould, 

The  knowledge  of  the  rigour  and  the  cold. 

I  asked  no  pardon  of  the  Clay, 

For  the  dead  eyes  had  wandered  in  their  day. 

And  kneeling  ceremonious  at  his  side, 

I  found  a  book  he'd  dropt  the  day  he  died, 

Verses — which  I  repeated  to  dead  ears  in  lieu  of  prayers. 

I  stole  the  book,  regardless  of  his  heirs, 

Asking  no  pardon  of  the  Clay, 

For  the  dead  man  had  loved  me  in  his  day. 


MATER  DOLOROSA 

THE  Mother  of  Mercy  in  sorrow  wise 
Looks  at  our  wounds  with  her  kind  eyes, 
Heals  with  her  look,  as  the  great  scathless  can; 
In  every  man  she  sees  a  child,  in  every  child  a  man. 

Lo!  her  great  spirit  leaves  the  holy  height, 
Swoops  to  the  depths  where  old  Sin  lies  at  night, 
And  the  grey  head  to  her  good  breast  she  takes, 
And  kisses  lips  that  curse  before  the  worn  child  wakes. 

She,  mortal  woman,  knew  the  stress  of  birth, 
In  a  frail  child  she  bore  the  King  of  Earth. 
The  eternal  symbol  of  our  faith  she  stands 
Who  put  all  hope  into  our  Children's  hands, 

Mother  of  Mercy,  in  sorrow  wise, 
Look  at  our  life  with  your  kind  eyes, 
Charm  our  dull  sight,  as  your  sweet  pity  can, 
To  see  in  every  man  a  child,  in  every  child  a  man. 


132 


SOLITARY 


WHEN  love  is  over,  are  we  most  alone. 
When  hearths  are  black,  there  is  the  cold  of  stone. 
I  rise  from  my  bed  and  walk  the  dismal  night, 
Weeping,  I  seek  alone  my  ultimate  right. 

The  warmth  and  cheer  of  Love  is  but  a  lure, 
By  which  the  blood  is  cheated  to  endure. 
To  each  man  is  a  path,  by  other  feet  untrod, 
Which  leads  him,  lonely,  to  the  hill  of  God. 

On  God's  cold  hill,  there  is  a  holy  height, 
Where  splendid  fires  descend  to  man  at  night: 
On  the  cold  traveller  falls  the  livening  breath, 
To  raise  him  high  in  life,  and  proud  in  death. 


133 


GOD,  I  AM  BROKEN 

GOD,  I  am  broken,  broken, 
I  have  nothing  left  but  my  tears. 
These  are  the  wealth  I  have  gathered 
Through  my  tempestuous  years. 

I  have  trusted  Life, 

I  have  leaned  on  Love, 

I  have  gone  from  hope  to  hope,  in  vain, 

From  Love  I  have  known  the  chill  of  death, 

From  Life  I  have  won  the  prize  of  pain, 

And  hope  is  not. 

God,  give  me  courage,  send  me  again  my  pride, 

Put  forth  Thy  mighty  Hand 

And  leave  me  on  a  bare  hill-side, 

Let  me  know  the  hail  and  the  rain-storm 

And  the  stress  of  warring  wind, 

Let  me  bathe  my  soul  in  silence 

And  forget  that  I  have  sinned. 


134 


INSPIRATION 


I  TRIED  to  build  Perfection  with  my  hands 

And  failed. 

Then  with  my  will's  most  strict  commands, 

And  naught  availed. 

What  shall  he  gain  but  some  poor  miser's  pelf, 

Who  thinks  for  ever  of  his  silly  self? 

Then  to  the  Stars  I  flung  my  trust, 

Scorning  the  menace  of  my  coward  dust; 

Freed  from  my  little  will's  control 

To  a  good  purpose  marched  my  soul; 

In  nameless,  shapeless  God  found  I  my  rest, 

Though  for  my  solace  I  built  God  a  breast. 


135 


ENVOI 


GOD,  thou  great  symmetry 

Who  put  a  biting  lust  in  me 

From  whence  my  sorrows  spring, 

For  all  the  frittered  days 

That  I  have  spent  in  shapeless  ways 

Give  me  one  perfect  thing. 


136 


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